


Somebody To You

by madlypieced



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Online Dating, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, sorta not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:16:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlypieced/pseuds/madlypieced
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She thinks—knows—there are many more moments to come, moments of clarity, moments when she catches herself falling for Lexa again, deeper, further. She doesn’t think she’ll ever regret these moments, so subtle, so hidden, so hers. Even if Lexa isn’t. Because, this—whatever this is—won’t last, she realizes. It can’t last. Not when she’s falling more and more in love with someone who still belongs to someone else."</p>
<p>or</p>
<p>AU; A story of relationships that begin as often as they end, of healing through wedding cake samples and bland cereal, and the development of a relationship no one expects</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sugar Baby ... Clarke?

It is 2 PM when Clarke finally awakes, her head pounding with the remnants of a massive hangover. The blinds are still drawn, and she looks over to the other couch to see her two best friends tangled in each other’s limbs, with one drooling on the other. 

Octavia and Raven are ever so reliable.

As with every girls’ night in gone wild, Clarke is unsurprised that she crashed first. Barely a social drinker, Clarke has the alcohol tolerance of a twelve-year-old, and her lovely friends take full advantage of it. But it is the weekend and Clarke heaves a sigh of relief, having slept half the day away. Not that it mattered, anyway. As a work-from-home social columnist, Clarke lives a flexibly creative life. 

The blonde reaches for her laptop on the coffee table, dangerously surrounded by booze devoid of labels. Raven promised that it was all legally purchased, but her following wink to Octavia suggested otherwise. It doesn’t bother her for long, though.

When Clarke flips her laptop open, she feels an urge to faint and, hopefully, stay unconscious forever. 

“What the _fuck_ is a sugar baby?!”

Clarke isn’t sure what to be more horrified of: the fact that she has a fully functional account on a site that seems to sell _sex_ or the fact that her profile picture is of her in sweats, post-breakup, devouring Coco Puffs. The anxiety dies down slightly when she notices a notification in the upper right screen. It’s a request to connect, which Clarke assumes is safe talk for “bang for a buck?”

She expects the old, executive geezer type posed in front of a posh house. Instead, her breath hitches when her eyes catch sight of a simply dressed but stunning brunette, whose captivating green eyes and small smile elicit fluttery feelings from a devastated Clarke.

_Lexa Woods, huh?_

She quickly glances at the drooling Octavia and snoring Raven, before returning to her laptop. Her throbbing mind begs her to act when she’s fully sober, but her fingers beat her to it.

_Click._  

She figures her friends can be filled in later.

“You are now connected to Lexa Woods. We wish you a good one.”

_What have I gotten myself into?_

 


	2. Supply and Demand

“How can someone sleep until 4?”

“What if she’s dead?” 

“Don’t be silly, O. She’s like a cockroach. Even fire won’t do her in.”

“That barbeque incident will forever live—hey, she’s finally moving!”

It takes immeasurable willpower and strength for Clarke to open her eyes, and she immediately regrets it. Her eyes feel dry and bloodshot, so she closes them once more for temporary relief.

“Okay… maybe we did kill her.”

Clarke snorts lightly, eyes still closed, defiant even near death. Her body feels like dead weight, but her friends react quickly enough and help her up. When she’s securely up, she opens her eyes to see a glass of water and Advil in front of her face.

“Thanks,” Clarke mumbles. “Even if you did almost kill me.”

“But did you _die_?” Raven asks, eyes bright with unapologetic confidence. “Would’ve kept a better eye on you, flush-face, had O not almost streaked and flew out the window.”

Clarke and Octavia’s eyes both widen in horror.

Raven shrugs at the half empty alcohol bottles. “The Cubans know what they’re doing. Maybe we’ll build a tolerance after a few more.”

“Space gods have mercy,” Clarke groans, hands raised in protest. Octavia sends a murderous glare at Raven. “I remember _nothing._ ”

“But _I_ will remember to end you, Raven,” Octavia threatens.

Despite their sluggishness and lack of enthusiasm, Raven begins humming all too cheerfully. The blonde can never tell if Raven simply sucks at lying or enjoys drawing suspicion.

“Spit it, Reyes,” Clarke grumbles angrily, inquisitively raising a brow.

“Do you really remember nothing?” Raven asks too cheekily, unnerving a clueless Clarke. When Clarke shakes her head, Raven’s eyes light up, and dread pools in Clarke’s stomach. “I remember a certain drunk blonde swigging half a bottle of very expensive alcohol as she rapped her new jam.”

Clarke’s cheeks flush red. “Please tell me I didn’t…”

“Oh, you did.” Raven grimaces. To demonstrate by example, Raven grabs an empty bottle as she stands on the couch. She swings her hips, intentionally as uncoordinated as a tangled swing set, and dramatically uses the bottle as a mic. “ _Fuck bitches get moooney!_ ”

Horror flashes across Octavia’s face, before it swiftly settles into disappointment. “Wait, where was I? How did I not record this?”

“O, not the point!”

“O, you were too busy stripping,” Raven deadpans.  

“There is no shame in loving a song that so perfectly matches my post-breakup mentality.” The headache has mostly subsided, but Clarke knows the shame will forever stay. “I am a proud, capable, and semi-financially independent woman who doesn’t need another woman to be happy.”

“Is that why you’re a sugar baby now?”

Clarke almost chokes on her spit. Raven looks at her funnily. She is holding Clarke’s opened laptop with an open tab of a very poorly dressed Clarke on a website that looks questionable but vaguely familiar.

“What the…” Octavia’s voice trails off, as she grabs the laptop from Raven. “I didn’t know you were serious about that rap, but … congrats, I guess.”

Raven, clearly stifling her laughter, winks at Clarke. “We promise not to judge too hard.” 

“I need another drink." 

* * *

After Clarke calmed herself to rationally assess the situation, she rejoined her two best friends in the living room. The two were engrossed in the website designed to connect “sugar daddies and mommas” and “sugar babies.” As cringe-worthy as the titles were, it was a legitimate market with great demand and even greater supply.

“You should’ve picked a better profile photo,” Octavia unhelpfully suggests, catching a glare from Clarke. “You can’t date someone who eats Coco Puffs. That’s like dating a child.”

The website’s interface is incredibly simple and user friendly. Raven smugly suggests it’s likely for the old geezers who aren’t technologically savvy enough to navigate something like Facebook. The site is divided into 4 sections: females as either sugar babies (supply) or sugar mommas (demand), while males were either sugar male babies or sugar daddies.

“Ooh, Clarke, you’ve got a suitor.”

Clarke is mildly flattered until she realizes he is old enough to be her grandfather.

“Don’t make me sign you up, Reyes.”

The basis of the site is simple. It connects buyers with suppliers through profiles. Profiles allow members to bluntly state expectations and expected compensation in return, a new twist on having a relationship on your own terms. This makes it easy to define a relationship.

“Jesus, Clarke,” Octavia groans exasperatedly. Clarke flinches, remembering that the two were combing through her half-assed profile. “I know you were drunk, but did you have to only put a winky face in your 'about me'? That should be illegal.”

Raven gags. “You’re just asking for creeps.” 

When Clarke reads the fine print, she’s relieved that the site isn’t overt prostitution or a refined Craigslist sex ad. Sugar babies don’t sell only sex; based off of the site’s description and the profiles she’s seen, sugar babies are merely attractive individuals who enjoy meeting wealthy people to experience luxurious lifestyles. In return, they provide services that vary depending on the individual, such as making an ex jealous, pleasing the family, or sex.

“Not gonna lie, I’m impressed that you had the guts to do this,” Raven smirks. “Even if I had to provide a little liquid courage.”

Octavia raises a threatening hand. “Don’t start.”

On the reverse side, sugar parents are successful men and women who know what they want. They don’t gamble on the long shot dating game; they buy what they want, when they want.

“I wonder if there’s a credit minimum to be a sugar daddy,” Octavia muses with a smile. 

Raven smacks the backside of Octavia's head. “Brokenhearted and broke ass Clarke has an excuse to do this. You?” She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“Guys,” Clarke groans. “I probably signed up for research purposes. You know that writer’s block that’s been killing me for a week? I think this is the cure.”

As a social columnist, Clarke often has difficulty brainstorming relevant, unique yet interesting topics to keep her readers hooked. Politics are fun and provide plenty of ammunition for columnists, but it is not fresh enough for her younger audiences. Love is always relevant, but either falls into the “love-struck” or “heartbroken” categories—why read Clarke Griffin’s musings when you have John Green or Nicholas Sparks’ emotional masterpieces?

“It’d be good to get a fresh perspective on the dating scene altogether,” Clarke argues halfheartedly, unsure if she is trying to convince her friends or herself. “Are you guys down to help me craft a masterpiece or not?” 

“Do you even need to ask?" 

“Can I make an account too?”

“O, you need Jesus.”

* * *

While they did not plan on spending their Saturday lazing around on Clarke’s couches, the girls find themselves laughing all day and night as they watch romantic comedies and pass around Clarke’s laptop for additional fun. Clarke decides that initiating contact reeks of desperation, so she idly waits. Against her better judgment, she does not remove her iconic “;)” from her profile to expand her clientele.

After thoroughly analyzing the site’s “about us” tab, she discovers the best way to test a suitor out is to chat with them prior to connecting.  The website’s platform allows for instant messaging between individuals, connected or not.

* * *

 Suitor #1: Djnovesky, 53, investment banker

_Djnovesky, 3:31 PM:_

_Hello Clarke :)_ _  
_

_Clarke, 3:33 PM:_

_Hello_

“Shouldn’t you be more flirtatious?” Raven asks, but no one responds. These are unchartered waters.

 

_Djnovesky, 3:34 PM:_

_I think your picture is gorgeous_

Octavia frowns. If the guy thinks Clarke’s profile picture is beautiful—compared to all the other models not in sweats on the site—then there is surely something wrong.

"Ask him if his eyes are okay."

_Clarke, 3:35 PM:_

_Thank you, haha? I try._

_Djnovesky, 3:36 PM:_

_You look like you have a creative mind, beautiful._

_Do you like hands-on art projects?_

_Clarke, 3:38 PM:_

_I haven’t considered it, but what’s on your mind?_

She’s not well adept in movie making or anything fancy, but Clarke does paint, and she’s not half bad if she must be objective.

The guy takes longer to respond than normal.

_Djnovesky, 3:41 PM:_

_I want to rub dirt all over your sweet petite body, before I slowly lick it off._

“What the actual fuck?”

All the warning signs are ringing in Clarke’s ears, and she is going deaf.

Raven chirps in nervously. “He must be kidding.”

_Djnovesky, 3:41 PM:_

_2 hrs. $4000? I buy and sell assets all the time._

_Let’s do business, Clarke._

Octavia instantly disconnects the conversation, more unnerved than Clarke.

“Forget about me ever wanting an account.”

* * *

Clarke does meet other guys. Weird, but definitely not as weird as the first one.

 Suitor #2: Adam, 37, real estate mogul

_Adam, 4:43 PM:_

_Hey there_

_Clarke, 4:47 PM:_

_Hi_

She keeps it simple and detached, in case she needs to run for the hills.

_Adam, 4:48 PM:_

_Would you like to spend a day with me?_

He’s polite, Clarke notes.

_Clarke, 4:49 PM:_

_You’re sweet. What do you have in mind?_

_Adam, 4:50 PM:_

_I sell luxury houses for a living._

Clarke is impressed. She thinks she’s found the one.

_Adam, 4:50 PM:_

_I also like to fuck in them before selling them._

Of course, the normalcy must end at some point.

_Clarke, 4:52 PM:_

_I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in sex._

Clarke isn’t mildly apologetic, but he was polite to her. She is guilt tripped into reciprocating.

_Adam, 4:54 PM:_

_Oh no. I just want you to watch me fuck someone else._

Raven audibly gags. “Voyeurism? What’s up with rich guys and weird fetishes?”

Clarke plans to ignore the conversation, but Octavia reaches for the laptop. She winks at the confused blonde.

“If you can’t join them, mess with them.”

_Clarke, 4:55 PM:_

_I rather watch algae grow._

The conversation disconnects.

* * *

It is now 7:19 PM, and all three girls are exhausted from weeding out all of Clarke’s suitors. They safely agree that 80% of them are straight up weird, while the other 20% are so boring that Clarke really does rather watch algae grow.

“Is it the winky face or the terrible profile picture that attracts all of these weirdos?”

Raven and Octavia share a glance.

“Both.”

* * *

Suitor #11: Lincoln, 28, law enforcement

His age and profession surprise Clarke; both differ drastically from the older and richer men who have abysmally failed at being mildly attractive. Even if it’s for research, Clarke has concerns about meeting people whom she couldn’t IM.

“Look, Clarke,” Raven gestures at an obviously infatuated Octavia. “She’s got raging heart eyes for tall, dark and handsome here.”

Clarke laughs. Lincoln is indeed conventionally attractive. 

_Lincoln, 8:03 PM:_

_Hi there, stranger_

Is he flirting? Clarke gives him bonus points for attempting to be cute.

_Clarke, 8:04 PM:_

_Hi_

As she’s fully learned by now, keep it simple to draw out the inner weirdo if there is one. 

_Lincoln, 8:05 PM:_

_Sorry if I’m awkward… I’ve never done this before._

Modesty is always an attractive feature. In Clarke’s peripheral, she sees Octavia practically swooning off the couch, as Raven watches on attentively in anticipation, mouthing a countdown. 

  _Clarke, 8:05 PM:_

_You’re sweet. This is my first day, as well._

_As long as you don’t want to cover me in dirt, we’ll be okay._

_Lincoln, 8:07 PM:_

_What?? That sounds insane. I apologize on behalf of the male population._

_No lady should be disrespected like that._

Yup. He’s a keeper.

_Clarke, 8:08 PM:_

_Thanks for being normal, Lincoln!_

_What brings you here tonight?_

And Clarke truly is appreciative. She's far from ready to move onto a new relationship, but she certainly doesn’t mind making a good friend or two. Given Raven’s antics, it is best to have a fellow cop on their side. 

_Lincoln, 8:09 PM:_

_I’ve got this police gala thing this weekend._

_I am embarrassed to say I’m so far dateless…_

_Clarke, 8:10 PM:_

_That’s crazy! You’re such a catch._

He must be. Raven, having learned he’s a nice guy—and likely boring—has returned her attention to Cameron Diaz in _The Other Woman._ Octavia, however, is essentially breathing against Clarke’s neck. 

_Lincoln, 8:12 PM:_

_Thank you, even if you’re lying._

_Not even trying to find a girlfriend here…_

_Just seeking someone I can keep a convo going with._

Though Octavia is wordless, Clarke feels her interest growing by each new message. Lincoln, thus far, is nothing short of a gentleman. Octavia has never dated anyone who was a gentleman, so she is understandably smitten with the knight in a bulletproof vest.

“O?” Clarke waves her hand to get Octavia’s attention. It takes a minute. “My legs are cramping on the couch. Do you want to fill in?”

Her cheeks flush a tint of pink. “No way. My job’s to watch out for you." 

Clarke snorts. “Don’t. Just take it. I need a mental break from these people anyway.”

It takes a few seconds, but Octavia quickly settles in. She cracks her knuckles, stretches her fingers, and Clarke thinks she’s just about ready for war.

The two converse for hours. From music interests to move genres to TV shows, they seem to share more in common than the average couple. It seems as if Lincoln has finally found someone who he can keep a conversation with, and this is confirmed when Octavia—freshly off the computer as he has work in the morning—profusely thanks Clarke.

“I promise to stop stealing your Colombian coffee beans from now.”

“You’re welc—wait, that wasn’t Raven?”

Raven's head pops up from the kitchen. "What the hell, Clarke?”

* * *

Fast forward to 11:13 AM, and the whole crew has just about fallen asleep. It feels like college all over again. Raven, laying on the ground, mumbles unintelligibly about her latest crush. Cameron Diaz’s fiery personality connected to Raven’s snark on a spiritual level. Meanwhile, Octavia’s face is buried into Clarke’s couch, snoring slightly. Earlier, she was more flushed from Lincoln than actual alcohol.

Clarke, having awoken at 4 PM, decides to commit her unusual attentiveness to more research about this new world of sugar parents and sugar babies. If today is anything to go by, then this article is certainly going to be interesting. Good or bad interesting, she isn’t sure yet.

Scrolling through her connect requests to decide who to reply to next, Clarke whimpers. It is almost impossible to tell who is normal and who is a fetish advocate. As she scrolls further and further, she notices a connect request she’s actually accepted.

Curiosity draws her to the profile.

_Lexa Woods, 26, nonprofit_

The name sounds vaguely familiar, and Clarke deduces that she must have accepted Lexa’s request while still drunk, given that she is at the bottom of the list. Not that she minds. Drunk Clarke thankfully still has some taste, because Lexa is undeniably attractive. Attractive enough that Clarke ponders breaking her “no initiation” rule, out of sheer desire to connect with this mysterious stranger who demonstrated interest but hasn’t followed through. She isn’t sure if she should be offended or worried.

But the small green circle by Lexa’s name lets Clarke know that she is currently online, and suddenly the rule no longer applies. It takes Clarke a few minutes to draft the perfect greeting.

_Clarke, 11:21 PM:_

_Hi, Lexa_

Short, simple, and _damn_ smooth. Clarke feels pride surging within.

_Lexa, 11:23 PM:_

_Hello yourself, beautiful_

Now is a good time to faint again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lexa definitely seems OOC right now, but there's a reason for everything and in due time. The story goes an entirely different direction from hereon out (good or bad, we'll see?).
> 
> @lipatrott and everyone else: Hope this chapter answers the sugar baby question! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and much thanks to those who shared your thoughts! I definitely appreciate the feedback.


	3. Awkward Beginnings and Wistful Endings

_Lexa, 11:23 PM:_

_Hello yourself, beautiful_

Clarke’s mind, once swimming with masterfully crafted flirtatious responses, has now gone blank. _Poof_. She swears she can actually hear her thoughts and words—a writer’s trade and life—instantaneously evaporate, and she doesn’t remember feeling this helpless in a long time.

_Lexa, 11:25 PM:_

_Sorry. This is a mistake_

She also doesn’t remember being insulted by a stranger in a long time.

_Lexa, 11:25 PM:_

_Wait, sorry. Again._

_I cannot hold my alcohol, apparently_

_I mean me on this site is a mistake_

Though her stoic features and graceful beauty are what initially captivated Clarke, Lexa’s fumbling words hold her attention. The dreadful helplessness she felt earlier—eerily reminiscent of structured family dinners and looming deadlines—has been replaced with curious amusement. Like herself, Lexa is new to the site. More importantly, they are also both light weights and that is a relieving commonality that eases a smile onto the blonde’s lips.

_Clarke, 11:26 PM:_

_I still feel that way_

_Don’t worry about it_

She hopes she sounds friendly enough. The whole concept of meeting people online escapes her still. It’s hard enough texting friends in the right tone as it is, let alone make friends purely through text.

Clarke patiently waits for Lexa’s reply, slightly anxious. The speech bubble has been there for the past three minutes, and Clarke is wondering if the brunette is writing her a novel.

_Lexa, 11:29 PM:_

_Good night, Clarke_

Her jaw unhinges solely from disbelief.  She is half-tempted to wait and draw out her response as retribution to this stranger, but what right did she have? Strangers hold no right to expect anything but the worst. A polite goodbye is certainly not the worst.

_Clarke, 11:29 PM:_

_Good night, Lexa_

_I hope you find what you’re looking for_

_Lexa, 11:29 PM:_

_Thank you_

_But I am not looking_

The green circle by Lexa’s name disappears, and Clarke heaves a deep sigh. Out of relief? Out of disappointment? She isn’t entirely sure, perhaps both. The interest in Lexa lingers, even long after their conversation’s ambiguous closure. On a site where everyone expects something, Lexa’s lack thereof is a memorable rarity.

The next few hours are uneventfully dull, with no conscious friends and no mysterious Lexa to keep her mind engaged—only bad late night television. Raven finally passed the mumbling stage of her sleep, only to move into the drooling stage. Clarke scrunches her nose in mild disgust, thankful that she didn’t end up splurging in an expensive rug after all. Raven may be a genius engineer, but she is equally an impressive mess. Meanwhile, Octavia’s light snoring serves as lulling background noise, almost like an out of sync lullaby.

Clarke almost falls asleep to Octavia’s snoring—she’d have to bring this up with Lincoln—but her neck snaps back when her head dips too low.

“Ouch,” Clarke mumbles, hands massaging her craned neck. She takes this as her sign to retreat to her bedroom, but is momentarily distracted by a new message notification on the site.                                                                                     

_Lexa, 1:24 AM:_

_What's your rate?_

Blue eyes squint suspiciously at the message, partially doubting its existence and partially intrigued by its suddenness. This is a turn of events Clarke did not expect; the stranger who sought nothing now seeks her.

_Clarke, 1:33 AM:_

_I don’t know_  

Her fingers are faster than her addled brain, and the words punch out rapidly followed by an immediate _“Shit.”_ Clarke mentally scolds herself for what is possibly the worst answer on this site. The point of this site is to _know_ and to set terms.

No speech bubble. She shouldn’t have felt so frantic over a mere stranger, but nerves overrule logic.

_Clarke, 1:34 AM:_

_What can you afford?_

_Shit._ Does she sound like a desperate gold digger? _Goodbye, dignity. Or what’s left of it._

_Lexa, 1:35 AM:_

_I need help eating cake_

A loud snort escapes Clarke, entertained and mildly excited by the proposal. Mere hours earlier, she rejected clients who offered $2,000/hour. But cake? Clarke wonders if this passes for charming.

_Clarke, 1:35 AM:_

_You drive a hard bargain_

_How do I know you’re not a serial killer?_

_Lexa, 1:36 AM:_

_You do not_

Clarke isn’t sure if Lexa is purposely unconvincing or astonishingly honest.

The site is supposed to accentuate every individual’s business acumen, and a businessman, even those of the lowest competence, would be able to see the deal’s primary damning flaw: no profit. Moreover, there is the very real possibility of danger. But, as Clarke nearly trips over Raven’s sleeping body in a rush, she remembers that she is no businessman. Only an average columnist suddenly fueled with senseless courage, enticed by an enigmatic stranger and free cake. 

_Clarke, 1:37 AM:_

_Where?_

* * *

Her heart is pounding, that much Clarke is sure. It is almost 2 AM in the middle of December, undoubtedly winter even in California, so she shouldn’t have rushed out in her plaid pajama set. Regrettably, they are neither her cutest nor her warmest pair. Now, she finds herself standing outside an apartment complex awaiting a stranger—who, for all she knows, could be a 50-year-old creep catfishing her with photoshopped sea green eyes—but she is here, arms crossed and legs stirring every few seconds to preserve warmth, and she feels her heart pounding harder than it ever has.

Excitement? Nerves? Fear? A mixture of everything, really. A charming, potential serial killer has that effect on people.

Clarke, a product of a sleepy suburban neighborhood and the university less than twenty minutes away, is not someone who acts recklessly. No; that’s Raven and Octavia, her two best friends who actually complete her. She is the sane, and they are the insane. While she opts for the same warm homemade meals and the same Netflix shows, they seek hole-in-the-wall gems and long drives with no destinations. She is home, and they are adventure. That’s how the dynamic is split, unsaid but mutually agreed upon; and, yet, it is Clarke who waits on a dimly lit street in the early morning hours for a stranger to escort her into a foreign building.

On the upside, before leaving her comfortable and safe home, Clarke borrowed—or stole, it’s all in perspective, really—Octavia’s trusty taser gun that never leaves her purse.

She faintly remembers Octavia obnoxiously bragging, “It fries humans as fast as chickens.”

_It will have to do._

Her rambling thoughts are interrupted by a newfound weight on her shoulders and the creeping warmth it brings. It’s a coat, she realizes as her head turns and her eyes meet sea green, as real as the photo online and equally soulful.

“Clarke,” Lexa greets, her voice firm yet tender. Clarke inhales sharply, overwhelmed by the sight of Lexa who slightly oversees her. She is now coatless, but Clarke can feel her lingering warmth in her coat that now graces her frame. Her face is serene, even without a smile, and her cheeks are neatly shaded light pink from the cold. What’s most striking, though, are her eyes, hesitant but reassuring; they welcome Clarke like a longtime lover who has finally found her way home, with faint relief and promise. She’s breathtaking, and she’s real. “You're here.”

“Yes,” Clarke smiles, reveling in Lexa’s character. She isn’t what Clarke expected from their first interaction. She isn’t pickup lines and slick quips, but awkwardly earthly and surreally genuine. “Are we heading in soon or are we waiting to catch frostbite?”

She doesn’t mean to jest—that requires familiarity—but Lexa’s flustering is adorable.

Lexa’s cheeks are now bright pink, as she hurriedly digs into her pockets for the keys, her back facing Clarke. “Sorry. This way.”

* * *

She isn’t sure what she expected Lexa’s apartment to look like. In her rush, Clarke did not mentally prepare herself for _anything_ , not even meeting Lexa in the flesh. And oh, how flesh trumps a profile photo. But, as the brunette uncertainly pushes the wooden door open, Clarke feels her excitement rise yet another bar.

Only to swiftly plummet into doubt and nominal disgust. She can’t definitively confirm if the apartment looks better with or without the lights. By LA standards, it is a decently sized one-bedroom, with an open kitchen and a standard living room. However, the apartment looks like it has been ransacked by drunken idiots and then used for a rave. Magazines and paper take-out containers litter the floor—is it hardwood or marble, Clarke can’t even tell—tables are hidden under heaps of pastels and envelopes, and couches have become makeshift beds fluffed by pillows and a blanket. Clarke may found Hurricane Raven’s competition at long last.

_Raven and Octavia, you two are blessings under demon disguises._

“Sorry.” Clarke’s attention snaps back to Lexa. The two are currently standing in the kitchen, which is thankfully not as dilapidated. “I was not expecting company.”

 _But you invited me_ , Clarke almost says. Instead, “It’s not that bad.”

_So this is the origin of white lies._

“I didn't think you would actually come,” Lexa corrects, sheepish. Clarke isn’t offended; if Lexa had spoken to someone other than Clarke, then that would probably be the case.

Clarke laughs, friendly and exuberant, hoping to cease Lexa’s stiffness. “You offered me cake. I’m a slut for free food.”

 _Shit. That was_ _so_ not _attractive._

But Lexa chuckles, before proceeding to the refrigerator with Clarke in tow. It’s a giant stainless steel contraption—Clarke is impressed; it looks like an Ikea kitchen set mainstay—and it is as big inside as it is outside. Upon seeing the cakes Lexa promised, Clarke gasps, stunned. Of the five largely spaced compartments, four are completely filled front to back with porcelain plates, each containing two slices of intricately decorated cake, different from the rest.

“Oh,” is all she manages. She was expecting Costco cakes, poorly bought in a moment of indecisiveness that she is frequently guilty of. She did not expect stacks and _stacks_ of what appear to be wedding cake samples. And, suddenly, it all clicks. To confirm her suspicions, Clarke secretly angles her head to get a better view of the living room and, surely enough, those are bridal magazines strewn around. Leftover wedding cake samples, a flood of trashed bridal magazines, and an equally trashed living room... 

_I found the holiest shit that I am not equipped to deal with._

Clarke looks desperately at Lexa for some direction. Lexa, however, looks at her with tender eyes and a small frown.

“Sorry, if this isn't what you were expecting.” Somehow, she keeps successfully reading Clarke’s thoughts, and Clarke found herself continually lying to deflect them.

“Are you kidding me?” Clarke’s voice is hoarse, but she hopes that was believable excitement. “This is a cake buffet. I feel like I’m in a dream.”

_A nightmare, really._

“You don't have to stay,” Lexa continues, patiently and with such kindness that Clarke wants to do nothing but stay. “I can call a cab for you.”

Clarke’s arm moves instinctively, so that her hand is on top of Lexa’s, with a firm enough grip to convince her otherwise. “I do want to stay.”

Lexa’s brows furrow in confusion.

“I mean,” Clarke flubs, grasping at straws, “You clearly need some help cleaning out your apartment.”

“You're not a maid.”

“I find it relaxing.” Lexa tilts her head skeptically, so Clarke uneasily continues, “It’s my favorite thing to do.”

_I’d rather do cardio, in all honesty._

Before Lexa can retort any further—and diminish Clarke’s dwindling resolve to confront her least favorite physical activity—Clarke shuts the fridge.

“Cake _after_ we clean. Pavlov’s conditioning.”

_Shit. Too nerdy._

Lexa, however, understands Clarke’s humor and smiles amusedly—for the first time, Clarke notes—and Clarke hates cardio again.

* * *

Cleaning isn’t as terrible as she last remembers it. After delegating the workload and assigning territories for maximum efficiency, the two now work in quiet harmony. Besides addressing where to toss the magazines and take-out—there are three separate trash cans for compost and recycling paper and plastic, apparently—neither woman speak to each other, but neither seem to mind. The hour passes painlessly and productively, and Clarke finds herself enjoying the silence. It is not tense or unwelcoming. It is instead comforting; Lexa’s presence is perpetually felt, and that is enough to motivate Clarke.

Once Clarke trashes the last bridal magazine—with a modest sense of satisfaction—she slumps onto one of Lexa’s balcony chairs, basking in wintry, crisp air and murky LA skies. She almost drifts asleep, but is awoken when several plates clumsily clatter onto the balcony table.

“You brought the cake,” Clarke remarks with a small chuckle.

Lexa nods, taking the other seat. “As a thank you.”

“For clearing out your fridge?”

“For being here.”

The words come out softly, brisk with fragility and gratitude, and Clarke’s mind is abuzz with endless questions from the wedding cakes to the trashed apartment.

But it is not her business, and she understands the need for privacy and gradual revelation at one’s own pace. So, she jokes, “I only came for the cake.”

Lexa, clearly not expecting a joke, stares at Clarke, mouth ajar.

“I won’t ask,” Clarke clarifies, flashing a reassuring smile at Lexa, whose stiffened posture begins to relax. “And, for the record, I wouldn’t be elsewhere for the world.”

And she really does mean that. It is slightly past 3 AM and Clarke’s muscles dully ache from unusual exertion. There are no stars tonight, and the cool air arouses uncomfortable goosebumps on bare flesh. She fights to withhold a yawn, as her eyelids repeatedly flicker in an unyielding attempt to battle exhaustion. Yet, she doesn’t recall feeling so alive and so content in so long, however ephemeral this is. She is in a stranger’s home, on a stranger’s patio in the early hours, sharing said stranger’s wedding cake samples, and all she can think about is that Lexa’s fifth-story patio is the perfect opportunity to watch the sunrise.

“I'll be okay.”

Clarke wonders whom Lexa is trying to convince. “I don’t doubt that.”

An appreciative smile tugs at Lexa’s lips.

“Have you ever seen the sunrise?”

Lexa pauses, her expression vaguely dismayed by the question. “No.”

“Do you want to today?”

“Yes.”

“Good, me too.” Clarke huffs air into her hands, gingerly clenching them to keep warm. “Are you cold?”

“Yes,” Lexa says, eyes avoiding Clarke’s. She does seem to be more relaxed, however, so the blonde takes that as progress. “Would you like to start a fire?”

_Okay… maybe too relaxed._

Clarke widens her eyes, mildly fearful. “Come again?”

“I'm not a pyromaniac,” Lexa clarifies, frantically waving her hands in protest once she realized her mistake in word choice. Another blush is flitting about her cheeks. “I mean to say that it's cold.”

“Yes…?” Clarke replies slowly, unsure of where this is going.

“And we have a trash bin full of magazines.”

_Ah._

Clarke is yet again amused by Lexa’s habit of flubbing her own words, but she is foremost worried about the source of the brunette’s sudden suggestion. She doesn’t want to broach the subject, but she doesn’t want Lexa to rush into anything she'd regret either.

“Are you sure?”

Lexa nods, eyes finally meeting Clarke’s. Her eyes are bright and confident, and not a trace of doubt can be seen or felt. “I want to try something new.”

“Like start a fire?” Clarke withholds laughter. Lexa’s idea is certainly entertaining.

“Apparently.” Even Lexa looks amused by her own idea.

Clarke voices no further objections. Within moments, Lexa returns and gently places the stainless metal trash bin in front of the patio table. She lights a match and extends it to Clarke who awaits eagerly, more excited by this prospect than she initially admitted. It isn’t everyday that someone starts a fire at 3 AM on an apartment patio.

Shaking her head, Clarke grins at Lexa. “This is your night, Lexa. The honor is yours.”

Before Clarke can register the flash of emotions across Lexa’s face—was it surprise then gratitude?—the match is dropped, and the fumes undeniably confirm the growing fire. The scene immediately transfixes the two, as they bask in the newly created warmth that gently envelops them, carrying solace and the promise of something new.

Clarke’s writer instincts instantly bombard her. There are almost endless words and extrapolations hidden in the symbolism of a moment like this: two almost strangers embraced by fire on a chilly night. It takes some effort, but Clarke determinedly ignores the humming in her mind and the twitchiness of her fingers, eager to bleed ink onto paper. Tonight is not the night to think. Tonight is the night to breathe all of her surroundings in, and so she does. 

No more words are shared that night, but neither notice. The sunrise says all that is needed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope the transition/twist isn't half bad. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and, as always, I am incredibly appreciative of the kudos and feedback! Feel free to leave more. They definitely make my days and nights more bearable in LA summer heat.


	4. Not Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you so much for the enormous support. I am thankful for all of your kudos and comments, so I am sorry for the late update (life caught up to me) but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Clarke swears she only momentarily closed her eyes, so briefly that it was as natural and insignificant as blinking.

She remembers the still chilly air faintly gnawing at her skin as the fire slowly flickered its last breaths of life. She remembers Lexa’s slack jaw and her eyes, bright with anticipation and vibrancy, as sunlight steadily filled the night sky. Most of all, she remembers the sunrise, every bit as stunning as she imagined it; after years of self-broken promises and delayed gratification because of obligations that somehow _became_ her life, she has finally seen it. To her surprise, it isn’t with either Octavia or Raven—they have seen plenty—but with _Lexa_ , a stranger who, under bizarre circumstances and chance happenings, unexpectedly roots herself into Clarke’s average, orderly life.

When Clarke opens her eyes, Lexa is gone. The sun, peeking from the horizon earlier, now fully threatens to blind her.

Fumbling to steady herself off the balcony chair—the unnatural exhaustion from merely cleaningreminds her to exercise a tad more—Clarke notices the blanket neatly cloaked over her body. It is a sizeable white wool blanket. Immediately, her mind wanders to Lexa, and heat creeps to her cheeks when she realizes that Lexa’s sincerity and thoughtfulness aren’t foreign to her. First, it was the coat outside, and now the blanket. Perhaps they are almost friends, Clarke thinks, and the thought invokes a gentle smile.

“Lexa?”

There is no response. Clarke enters the living room, temporarily distracted by its newfound grace post-cleaning—the floors are hardwood, she can see that now—but Lexa isn’t there either. The kitchen is empty as well.

“Lexa? Hello?”

Unanswered, unsurprisingly.

The living room clock reads 9:23 AM, so Clarke shrugs her absence off. She may not be a morning person, much like most of the world, but Lexa, who is so full of surprises, could be. Before she can continue her pursuit of Lexa, her stomach comes alive suddenly, demanding and embarrassingly loud, and Clarke hopes Lexa isn’t here after all.

_The least I can do is make us both breakfast._

Except, after reading the post-it note hanging off the otherwise blank refrigerator door, Clarke learns that Lexa has already done that.

_“Thank you._

_Breakfast is on the counter._

_Beverages are in the fridge (didn’t know your preference).”_

When Clarke lazily opens the fridge, she is expecting some milk and maybe apple juice. Orange if Lexa is feeling wild. She does not expect _everything_. As if to compensate for not knowing Clarke’s preferences, Lexa seems to have bought every possible beverage option.

In place of the leftover cake samples, rid only hours earlier, there are numerous quart-sized cartons of breakfast beverages: of juice, there is apple, orange, grape, pineapple, and pomegranate; of milk, there is whole, low-fat, skim and even almond. Clarke also swears she sees a pint of kale smoothie— _gross_ —but she has already shut the fridge door, mind temporarily frazzled, still attempting to register _so many_ options.

On a good day, Clarke’s fridge would be lucky to have one unexpired carton of milk.

Though overwhelmed, Clarke is acutely aware of the smile that Lexa unintentionally succeeds in drawing out, yet again. She isn’t sure if she is concerned by Lexa’s overbearing gesture or charmed by her thoughtfulness.

She pulls out the apple and pomegranate juices and almond milk—it is a rare opportunity, after all—and settles on the kitchen island. There are multiple glass cups already set out, as if Lexa prepared beforehand in anticipation. Gingerly removing the Tupperware lid, Clarke feels her salivary glands spring alive. The omelet’s smell alone induces mouthwatering and it tastes even better. Lexa would be a terrific friend but an unbeatable arch nemesis; she can’t beat a rival who has no weakness. 

But, when Clarke returns to the balcony to properly store the wool blanket, she recognizes that the seemingly infallible Lexa does indeed have a weakness. The trashcan, center of their brazen fire only hours ago, remains untouched, ashes of bridal magazines pooled on the bottom. Clarke doubts Lexa failed to notice the ashes, but she remembers that it is not her place to wonder. 

When she returns to the living room, Clarke notices the purposefully placed picture frame on the coffee table that was certainly clear after their impromptu cleaning session. She cautiously picks up the frame, so carefully and delicately as if it is a Picasso original—though it must be worth immeasurably more than that to Lexa—and her breath hitches.

It is a photo of Lexa and a woman. It is by all means a typical photo on a typical sunny day at a typical picnic, but Clarke understands now that a single photo really is worth a thousand words. The woman in the photo, who Clarke assumes is Lexa’s lover—or ex-lover, she still isn’t sure—is simply breathtaking. Lexa is equally beautiful, but the two are different kinds of beautiful, sharply different but unequivocally complementary. Lexa is autumn and winter, paradoxically dynamic and stoic all at once, with hidden smiles and prolonged hugs. Her lover is spring and summer, radiating unbounded joy and hopeful promises, with lively leaps and resounding laughter. They may be different, but the unadulterated happiness is indisputable.

And, suddenly, Clarke feels like an outsider invasively gazing in. Her stomach churns uncomfortably, prompting her to gently set the photo as it was. Who is she, really, but an outsider since the beginning? Though she helped clean Lexa’s home, slept on her balcony, and dined in her kitchen, she is no less of a stranger than before this… friendship? Acquaintanceship? Clarke can’t even _classify_ this. This home doesn’t belong to her; it belongs to Lexa and this beautiful, damn lucky woman.

So, Clarke does as all strangers should in places they don’t belong. She secures her belongings, and she leaves. The door softly clicks shut, and not a lingering glance is spared. 

* * *

On the cab ride home, Clarke mentally prepares herself for what she is sure is waiting for her at home, and she is not disappointed. Five seconds into her apartment, she barely manages to kick off her boots before she is attacked with a tight embrace, a wordless declaration of love and family, and she smiles again. She doesn’t fight the hug, despite the slow numbing of her senses, because it reminds her that she has a home as well. _This_ is her home, with her two best friends, and she momentarily forgets about Lexa and her home where she does not belong.

Octavia and Raven hug her longer than the moment calls for, and they linger after to breathe her scent in to confirm her safety. Worry, as troublesome and guilt-ridden as it is, is a form of love, and Clarke is only partially apologetic.

“Why do we pay for a criminally expensive phone plan if you don’t use it?”

“We were two hours and seventeen minutes away from filing a missing persons report.”

Then, of course, comes the story of what happened in the several hours of her disappearance. Her friends react as she expects them to, Octavia especially.                                                                               

“Are you _fucking_ dumb or _just_ dumb?”

“Do we need to chip you like a dog? Or should we just taser you, you thief?”

Clarke hardly flinches despite their threats, knowing they are empty of danger, instead full of worry.

“I am alive and well.” Clarke twirls once to provide conclusive evidence, but she only receives an eye-roll and a snort. “And are you guys really ones to judge? Remember when you two broke into the university’s engineering showcase to sneak in Raven’s unapproved project?”

Raven hisses, “It was for _science._ ”

“It was _illegal_ ,” Clarke retorts flatly. “And you woke me up at 2AM to be your getaway driver.”

“I forgot to bring my license,” Octavia attempts to justify, knowing Clarke’s tendency to hold grudges to the grave. Clarke doesn’t conceal an irritated eye roll. “There are only so many laws I can break in one night.”

“Did you hear what you just said?”

Octavia shrugs, to which Raven scoffs. “So we live interesting lives, speaking of which—”

Instinctively detecting Raven’s prying question, Clarke squeezes past them and bolts for her room, hastily waving a hand in goodbye. Her best friends have always effortlessly delighted Clarke’s day with their mere presence and pointless bantering, but she slept little this morning and her mind’s temporary reprieve from Lexa is over.

Raven doesn’t follow, only heaves a sigh before resigning to watch Octavia busy herself with lunch preparations instead. Clarke will let them in when she is ready, and only she will know when.

* * *

Upon entering her room, Clarke longingly crawls under the sheets of her bed. Her eyes close, and she comfortably begins unwinding. There’s an unparalleled sense of solace and security under one’s covers rarely replicated elsewhere. Until yesterday. Her mind naturally circles back to Lexa. Regrettably and uncontrollably, Clarke concedes that Lexa also carries the same comfort and security as her trusty covers. Perhaps it was the coat that Lexa surprisingly draped over her or the balcony fire they sporadically started in LA—of all cities—or even the thoughtful breakfast. She is a stranger, that much is true, but she doesn’t _feel_ like one, and that contradiction is enough to awaken Clarke.

Her mind is reeling with too many questions and so few answers— _What’s the story behind the cake? The woman? Me?_ —and her laptop is already flipped open when she catches herself. The same invasive feeling from earlier resettles in her stomach. The fact is that she and Lexa are only strangers, and strangers are not entitled to seek answers to personal questions.

And so, Clarke shuts her laptop and closes her eyes once more.

* * *

The days flit by unremarkably. Clarke paused the sugar parent article, having ultimately neglected the site for peace of mind. Instead, she fills her days with commissioned articles for blogs and magazines, but there are a limited amount of commissions, and Clarke quickly finds herself out of things to occupy her mind with. 

She needs to shop for the week, she reasons, as she finds herself standing in Lexa’s local market despite having gone yesterday. The best inspirations come from unexpected places, she justifies, as she repeatedly checks the time and not any product. Casually strolling is nice exercise, she thinks, as she walks round after round in the market, eyes frequently scanning the entrance.

When the desired brunette enters the market, hair held up in a loose bun and in classic winter apparel—namely a hoodie with skinny jeans and boots—Clarke doesn’t know why she almost trips on flat ground. It is a Saturday afternoon, and Lexa predictably looks like the type to shop once a week for the week, so this is normal. This is expected. This is _nerve-racking_.

In the three seconds Clarke uses to consider her next move, Lexa spots her. Her brows raise slightly in surprise and her lips part briefly before closing. Clarke thinks she catches a curious smile tugging at Lexa, but she pays little attention, instead focusing on Lexa’s slow approach.

“Clarke,” Lexa greets, nodding in acknowledgement.

“Um, hello.”

_Smooth._

“I was not aware you lived in the area.”

_Shit, I’ve been made._

Few excuses run through Clarke’s mind, and they are all obviously doomed to fail, so she stammers, “I… I really liked the juice from your apartment.”

_I might as well have said I’m stalking her._

Instead of shooting holes into Clarke’s poor form for an excuse, Lexa asks, “Apple or pomegranate?” Lexa’s memory surprises Clarke who noticeably widens her eyes. “Those two are the only ones open.”

Clarke is surprised. As a juice junkie, she fails to understand Lexa’s words. “It’s been a week, and you haven’t opened any of them?”

“I don’t drink juice.”

“Then why’d you buy so many?” It almost comes off as an accusation and Clarke is half tempted to apologize when Lexa looks genuinely puzzled.

“For you.”

It is a simple answer, but it renders Clarke speechless. She wills herself to say something, _anything_ , but she finds nothing. Lexa doesn’t broach the subject, opting to continue her market trip with Clarke silently in tow. The two explore the aisles side by side in silence, gradually crossing off items on Lexa’s list and filling the cart, but it is neither uncomfortable nor unwelcomed.

Clarke devises several plausible, smooth conversation starters to break the silence, but Lexa beats her to it. “I didn’t think I would see you again.”

“Is that what you want?” The question comes out quickly but quietly, far too tactlessly for her preference, and Clarke doesn’t know why Lexa’s answer matters.

Her eyes meet Lexa’s, keen and penetrating as the night before. Lexa breaks eye contact first, moving toward the cash register. The two naturally fall into a comfortable rhythm as they set things onto the counter. 

“I meant it when I said thank you.”

Avoidance, so that’s the game. Clarke would be amused if she wasn’t seeking an answer.

“I don’t doubt that.”

“You said the same thing last time.” Lexa smiles this time, but Clarke only compares it to her smile in the photograph, and it is lackluster in comparison. She swipes her credit card to pay for the groceries, and they are soon out the door. “Do you always have such faith in strangers?”

“Are you a stranger?”

They reach Lexa’s car right after and begin transferring the items.

“You didn’t get your juice.”

Avoidance, again, but it successfully distracts Clarke who catches her fatal mistake. It is now apparent that Lexa saw right through her bullshit.

“I… uh…”                                                                                                        

“I have juice in my apartment.”

The trunk slams shut, but Clarke is still processing what she thinks is an invitation. When the car roars to life but remains in place, she realizes that it is and slides into the passenger seat.

“Seat belt?" 

“Check.”

Lexa doesn’t address the subject, gearing into drive and allowing the silence to surround them again. But Clarke is getting used to this comfortable silence, so she closes her eyes. 

* * *

“Why did you buy three boxes of Cheerios?” Clarke didn’t notice it at the market when she was flustered to think properly, but it is evident now while they’re unpacking Lexa’s bags. “And why does your cereal cupboard only have Cheerios?”

“It’s healthy.”

“But _only_ Cheerios?” She tries not to sound disgusted. Her personal favorite is Lucky Charms.

“Yes?” Lexa shoots a puzzled glance at Clarke, having just gone over this. “Would you like some?”

“Mmm,” Clarke drawls dramatically, scrunching her nose. “Better not. It’s like my tongue is allergic to flavorless things. Comes right back up.”

Lexa’s lips twitch in amusement.

Sensing that the conversation will die soon, just when Lexa is on the brink of smiling—a rarity, Clarke notes—she hurriedly cuts in an attempt to savage it. “But!”

Lexa pauses, unsure of Clarke’s direction. 

“But… it doesn’t mean it has to taste flavorless.” When Lexa’s brows furrow in confusion, Clarke thinks of an idea she immediately regrets. “Have you ever had cereal with juice instead of milk?”

_What the actual fuck, Clarke Griffin?_

Lexa can’t hide her grimace. “Come again?”

_Yup. She thinks I’m a caveman._

“You don’t have to, I mean,” she attempts at a save.

Just as she thinks she’s clear and that Lexa will ignore this embarrassing mistake as she has others, Lexa says, “Show me.” She seats herself by the kitchen island and nods at Clarke with a curious stare, motioning for her to begin.

_Oh, fuck._

Clarke knows she has no other option than to ride it out. She didn’t believe in her idea—she is definitely a traditional milk and cereal person—but, as a writer, she understands the art of faking it till you make it. So, she improvises. She grabs five small bowls, one for each type of juice in Lexa’s fridge, and pours Cheerios into each of them. Clarke can feel her heart pounding—fearful of making a complete fool out of herself—and her hands shake ever so slightly as she pours.

“Clarke.”

Lexa’s voice breaks her concentration. It is soft and reassuring, and the way Lexa looks at her, so gently and full of faith, steadies her hands.

Clarke proceeds with the next step and retrieves the cartons of juice, pouring one into each bowl—her grip is firm and steady now—until the cereal is adequately submerged. Apple, orange, grape, pineapple, and pomegranate. The bowls quickly become the color of the respective juices, and Clarke swallows the uneasy lump in her throat when she presents it to a dubious Lexa with a weak “Ta-da.”

She examines the bowls, eyes scanning and narrowing, lips curving and uncurving, and Clarke knows that Lexa must think she’s either full of shit or completely insane. Or both.

To put them both out of their impending miseries, Clarke suggests, “This is a really stupid idea. You don’t—”

“Which do you recommend first?”

When Clarke’s widened eyes meet Lexa’s, she knows she is serious. “Are you sure?”

Lexa nods once, passing a spoon to Clarke and motioning for Clarke to choose.

“What if—”

“Clarke.”

Clarke picks the Cheerios drenched in apple juice, her favorite juice, though possibly not for much longer. Lexa takes the first bite, while Clarke eagerly stares at her and prays that this doesn’t result in diarrhea. As she chews, Lexa’s eyes move corner to corner in deliberation. It feels like forever before she finally looks at Clarke.

“This is interesting.”

_So it’s shit._

Heaving a heavy sigh, Clarke’s hands stretch to grab the bowl from Lexa, but she meets unexpected resistance.

“What are you doing?” Lexa almost looks defensive.

Clarke is utterly bewildered by her reaction. “Saving your taste buds?”

Lexa responds by taking another bite, eyes never leaving Clarke’s. And then another bite, and then another. Until the bowl is empty.

“You didn’t have to finish that for me,” Clarke begins to ramble, as the guilt over Lexa forcefully consuming what was probably disgusting rushes in. “It was a dumb idea and you’ll probably get a stomach ache later and we should just dump the rest of these out.”

“Thank you.”

Again, Lexa easily silences Clarke.

“I admit it is not the most delicious,” Lexa starts, and Clarke feels her face fluster. “But I have always eaten Cheerios with low-fat milk. It is one of many habits that Costia used to indulge.” 

“Costia?” Clarke can’t help but notice the way the name rolls off her tongue compared to Lexa’s. It is far too different, foreign, cold.

“My ex-fiancée,” Lexa states, looking at Clarke with an attempted smile. Her eyes are knowingly sad, still recovering from what Clarke can only imagine as an emotional storm, but they are also livelier than they were the last time they met. “So, thank you for breaking an old habit.”

 _Thank you for being here_ , Clarke hears.

So she was correct about the woman in the photo. Clarke would normally feel triumphant for her keen deductive reasoning, but she can barely manage a smile now as she mourns alongside Lexa. Clarke feels her chest tighten nostalgically. The almost desperate relief and gratitude is reminiscent of Clarke when her father passed. She’s _been_ there; to seek someone— _anybod_ y—to remind herself that she isn’t alone, no matter how suffocating the air suddenly feels, slowly drowning her from the inside.

Clarke musters up a warm smile. “We still have four more bowls to go, you know.”

 _You are not alone_ , she means.

Lexa looks surprised. Clarke hopes Lexa hears her.

“Which one next, then?”

She does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking it out and reading! I know it's a slow burn, but I hope to hear your thoughts on the story's progress. 
> 
> Also, anyone else in love with Shoot from POI? When I said life caught up to me, half of it was POI binge watching..


	5. That Was Then, This Is Now

It is only ten past two in the afternoon, but Clarke marvels how she and Lexa are still alive. In retrospect, juice and cheerios is not her most brilliant idea. Or even a half decent one, for that matter.

“Lexa?”

“Clarke.”

After they miraculously finish Clarke’s less than divine creation, the two naturally fall into sync once again, returning to their effortless delegation of cleaning duties as they did their first night together. Lexa gathers the utensils and bowls into the sink for Clarke to begin washing. When Clarke finishes soaping and rinsing, Lexa dries them. It’s a comfortable, almost domestic routine that they have somehow wordlessly stumbled into, and their relationship’s peculiarity gnaws at Clarke.

“Never mind.”

“Clarke.”

Comfort comes far too easily to Clarke when she is around Lexa. Unexplainably and irrationally, she is carelessly vulnerable around Lexa. Her mind does not entangle itself with her thoughts, running through them indefinitely for any flaws in rationale or lapse in judgment. She’s no longer always-on-the-defense writer Clarke Griffin, nor is she the single child who lived her life under constant scrutiny.

With Lexa, she just thinks. Just says. Just is.

“I am glad to have met you.”                                                                                                           

Lexa does not say anything, and that says everything.

She has known Lexa for about a week—really, a day, if she considers the gap between their first and second encounter—but it feels like she has known her for years upon years.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No."

The two are in the living room, each lying on a couch with arms crossed under their necks and eyes on the ceiling. There is nothing physically intimate or engaging about this moment, but Clarke feels compelled to stay.

“I just needed time.” 

Clarke nods understandingly, though Lexa’s answer is again too vague.

“To think,” Lexa says, as if reading Clarke’s mind. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

Lexa groans. “Doing this. Always. Never finishing my thoughts.”

A soft chuckle escapes Clarke’s lips. Though she can’t see anything but the questionable popcorn ceiling, she closes her eyes and sees Lexa’s small frown.

“It’s another habit.”

The blonde’s eyes flutter open at the implication. 

_Costia._

Clarke wills herself to say, “It’s okay.” Though it is becoming increasingly not okay on her end. The more she learns about Lexa, the more she doesn’t know about Lexa. It’s one step forward, two steps back. Lexa isn’t blatant, forward, or anything Clarke is used to with Octavia and Raven. Lexa is curt, fragmented sentences and meanings intricately woven under words—nothing Clarke easily understands. 

Her writer instincts urge her to interrogate and extrapolate, as she has done innumerably, but Lexa is not a number, she reminds herself. So, she wills herself to be passive once more, and notes that Lexa makes it surprisingly easy to abandon her inclinations.

In Clarke’s peripheral, Lexa is sitting up now, gaze fixed on her.

“You can say it, Clarke.”

Her statement jolts Clarke from the couch. “What?”

“Her name is Costia,” Lexa says, almost nonchalantly, but Clarke hears the twinge of hurt. “Costia,” she repeats with a small smile and, there it is again, the same resounding pain. Clarke wonders how long it’s been since she’s spoken her name. Or cried it. 

Lexa is staring straight at her now and, though Clarke meets her gaze, she isn’t sure what to say or do. Is there a proper protocol for consoling someone who you don’t quite know but feel you know?

“Aren’t you curious?” Lexa’s question sounds more like an accusation, a product of too many of the same questions with hardly any sentiment.

But Clarke gets it—the defense masked as an accusation—so she shrugs. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. It’s a human thing.”

Silence resumes, as the room halts to a standstill. Lexa’s brows are knotted and Clarke can easily read her confusion. Her answer is typically followed by a few questions, but she says nothing.

“I’m curious and I’m dying to ask you questions, really, it’s a writer thing.”

Lexa prompts, “But?" 

“But you will tell me when you’re ready, and I won’t infringe on that revelation,” Clarke affirms with a slight nod, smiling at Lexa to ease her worries. “It’s a Clarke thing,” she adds with a playful wink.

When Lexa doesn’t react, Clarke wonders, _Shit, was that creepy? Goddamn it, Clarke. You had one job._

But then, for the first time, Lexa laughs. Fully, easily, loudly. It’s a sound bite of happiness, and Clarke can easily claim this as one of her best accomplishments for the next decade. There’s an evident change in Lexa and the room; her shoulders roll back weightlessly and the air thins, whatever somber hint dissipating now.

Her laughter doesn’t last long, but its contagion is undeniable and Clarke can’t seem to fight her grin. “Good to know you’re capable of laughing.” A soft scoff is the only response she gets, but she’s far too satisfied to mind.

“You are nothing I expected, Clarke.”

“What did you expect?”

Lexa opens her mouth, but pauses, tongue swirling for the right set of words.

“Will?”

Another topic change, but her tone is half defiant, half curious, and Clarke immediately understands Lexa’s reference to her previous statement.

_You will tell me when you’re ready._

“You did say I have a lot of faith in strangers. Don’t ruin it for the next one.”

Her answer clearly surprises Lexa who’s subtly fighting a smile. Perhaps Costia isn’t the only one who understands Lexa’s half finished sentences. 

“Are we strangers, Clarke?”

Clarke pretends to mull it over. “If that’s what you call someone who eats Cheerios with juice to make someone else feel less like an idiot, then I suppose, yes, Lexa, we are strangers.”

Another smile from Lexa. Clarke thinks she can get used to keeping score.

“Friends, then?” Lexa extends her hand, motioning for a shake.

Clarke scoffs. “Friends, not business partners.”

“I don’t hug." 

“Of course you don’t,” Clarke mumbles, eyes scanning the room for some inspiration to commemorate the moment. There is no other conventional method. So, she improvises again. Rising from her couch, she motions for Lexa to make room for her on her couch so that they are seated side by side, facing each other. Lexa looks unusually confused, but Clarke is too certain to retreat.  “Extend your hand.”

Hesitantly, she extends her right hand, palm facing the ground. Clarke places her left hand over Lexa’s, squeezing it gently once and patting it thrice, before pulling away. It’s a quick and gentle gesture, neither too invasive nor lingering.

“One squeeze to remind you you’re not alone and three pats to remind you of me.”

“Three?”

“Three for the three syllables in my name,” Clarke says as plainly and matter-of-factly as she can, adverting her gaze from Lexa. She can feel her cheeks quickly burn up, radiating an embarrassing shade of red. “So, it’s a reminder that you’re not alone because I’ll be there. I know, it’s cheesy and dumb, but…”

Clarke trails off when she feels an unfamiliar but welcoming warmth enveloping her left hand. Then a squeeze, and then three pats.

“Lexa Woods.” The brunette clears her throat, as she looks elsewhere; in fact, she’s looking at anything but Clarke. “Though I doubt you’re ever alone, I’ll be there.”

 _I’ll be there for you_ , Clarke hears, and it is more than enough.

“Friends, right?” Lexa asks, to which Clarke dips her head in agreement so Lexa retreats her hand. The absence of warmth comes isn’t immediate, much to Clarke’s relief, but it steadies in a gradual wave and she misses it more than she should. “If you won’t ask me a question, can I ask you one?”

Her ears perk in anticipation, intrigued by the suddenness of Lexa’s question. Almost out of character, even. “I remember a certain someone telling me they weren’t looking for anything,” she teases, half expecting a defiant response or another signature scoff.

 _I hope you find what you’re looking for._

_Thank you_

_But I am not looking_

“I didn’t think I’d find you.”

And time seems to halt at that moment, as the words slowly register in Clarke’s mind. She expected many responses, including none at all, and they would have sufficed all the same but none would have had the same effect on her. Thoughts revolving for the perfect response. Fingers still to keep what little composure she has. Heart palpitating from— _what, exactly?_ Their eyes naturally meet again—somehow always drawn to one another—and Clarke can only note how nonchalant Lexa is, and she almost admires her for it.

After a few drawn out seconds, Clarke nervously chuckles. “You have a way with words. Ever considered writing?”

It’s a joke. It’s meant to take off the edge.

“I have a way with the truth, actually.”

But Lexa never did know how to time her forwardness.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clarke retorts, trying to pass nerves off as wit. “What’s your question?”

_Anything would be a good distraction about now._

Lexa strums her fingers along the coffee table, lips pursed and brows knotted in deep thinking. Clarke is partially terrified of what grand, philosophical question awaits her.

“Why were you on that website?”

“Huh?” Clarke almost laughs over her excessive worrying. “That’s the big question?”

Lexa quirks a brow. “What did you expect?”

 _Another goddamn, untimely truth bomb._  

“Nothing,” Clarke hurriedly says, before pursing her lips in contemplation of where to even begin with the mess of a backstory between them. “How much time do you have?”

“As much as you’ll give me.”

Clarke admits it’s essentially futile to try to fight the smiles Lexa unintentionally yet successively draws out.

“Alright, Casanova,” she retorts, with an exaggerated eye roll that provokes a Lexa-esque scoff. “I suppose it begins with the god awful profile photo I drunkenly used. Were you inebriated when you first initiated contact? Because I was the epitome of a _hot mess_ in that photo.” 

“Temporarily inebriated, perhaps.”

“Always so honest,” Clarke laughs, amused by Lexa’s bluntness. If she didn’t know Lexa, she might have been insulted. “Well, you’re not the only one recovering from a broken heart, let’s say that.”

Silence, again. When Lexa does not respond, Clarke realizes her mistake.

_Shit. It was a joke._

“Lexa, don’t worry. I’m fine,” Clarke says, hoping to assuage her friend. What was supposed to be a relatable, empathetic moment went to shit in less than half a minute. “I can laugh and joke about it. That means I’m fine.”

A pause. “I don’t doubt that.”

Clarke sighs in relief. A cheeky remark is always a good sign. “Seems like you’re a quick learner.”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Lexa says with a small smile of her own. “It wasn’t my intention.”

She ponders Lexa’s words. _Am I really fine if I can’t even talk about it?_

“You’re always challenging me, Lexa,” she says at last, before inhaling a deep breath and exhaling even deeper. The air thins slightly and her shoulders are a little less heavy, and she wonders if Lexa felt the same way earlier. She hasn’t spoken about it openly to anyone outside of Octavia and Raven, and it's been months since then but she feels safe near Lexa. “I just… I guess my grand plan was to put it all to rest and let it die. Not a very good plan, I know.”

“I’m not one to judge,” Lexa says wryly, offering understanding that Clarke gratefully accepts. “Plans don’t often last.”

A dry laugh is all Clarke can give. It feels like they’ve returned to their first night together with that brazen impromptu bonfire that Clarke can’t feel even remotely guilty about. No judgment, just feelings. But several things have changed since then, namely her understanding of their relationship, so she speaks.

“But that was then and this is now.” Lexa looks at Clarke in mild confusion from her sudden confession. “His name was Finn, and I loved him recklessly.”

Lexa is noticeably attentive, eyes keen and wide, but she asks nothing of Clarke.

“It’s almost poetic, until it’s not,” Clarke says with a humorless laugh. “We had good days and bad days. But at some point, we had changed too much, and the only way to salvage anything was to go back.”

A pause.  Her eyes are stinging now, as they always do when she mentions Finn and, _god,_ what a weakness it is _,_ but she fights the tears and idle memories.

“But we had to move forward for so many other reasons, so we just held on until we couldn’t.” The dull ache she’s worked so hard to muffle returns in her chest, and she feels it constricting, feels each breath slow and empty itself, feels herself shrinking—

A squeeze, then three pats, and the bareness flits away as quickly as it intruded.

“It’s okay to cry, Clarke.” Lexa’s hand firmly rests on Clarke’s, squeezing it gently. And Clarke really thinks she’s about to cry and, _god,_ how it frustrates her. Finn doesn’t provoke the tears; no, their relationship plummeted as quickly as it escalated, and she accepted its inevitability. It’s the memories—the good and the bad, the laughter and the yelling, the hand holding and the cold nights alone—that she’ll never be able to rid herself of. It’s knowing what they had, being there as they built their relationship together from the ground, and helplessly watching it crumble from the sidelines and pretending she walked away unscathed.

“He’s a riddle, a rhyme in my life that no one will know about ten years down the road.”

_Except me._

“Except you.”

Of course, Lexa knows.

“Yes,” she pauses, and a bittersweet smile tugs at her, “except me.”

It’s the first time Clarke has admitted his significance aloud since their split, and she’ll be the first to validate that the truth is indeed freeing. It was so easy to vilify him—hell, everyone in her life did—and to pack up the years they spent together into boxes shoved into an attic she’ll never revisit. It was so easy to list the silent nights and cite the volcanic arguments. It was so easy to forget about all the good they had, all the inside jokes and sentimental gestures. It made it easier to move on, she thought, but it turns out you never quite move on from a relationship. Not entirely, at least.

“It _is_ poetic.” Clarke’s head snaps in Lexa’s direction to see the rueful smile playing along her lips. “He’ll always be your rhyme, your riddle, a piece of you. There’s no shame in that.”

It’s the first time she’s heard that perspective, and it unsurprisingly comes from Lexa. “You truly think so?”

“I do.”

_Costia._

She gives little time for Clarke to dwell, as she rises from the couch, tugging at Clarke’s hand and pulling her forward and up. “You look exhausted.”

_Huh?_

Her quizzical look must have sent a clear message, because Lexa clarifies, “The couch is uncomfortable for naps, and I do own a bed.”

_Shit. Good going, genius._

“Just when I thought I was getting the hang of you,” Clarke retorts, before following Lexa down the short hallway. It’s exceptionally easy for the mood to rise and dip so quickly around them, one second tense and the next casual, but she thinks there are worse things to adapt to.

When Lexa opens the door, Clarke sees almost exactly what she expects. Bare, white walls. Window curtains pulled shut. Matching white rug on the wood floor. The bed sheets, however, aren’t the monochrome colors she expected. Instead, they are bright floral, yellow and white intermixed and out of place, and it takes a few seconds too long to piece it all together.

So, instead of the bed, Clarke lays on the white wool rug between the bed and the wardrobe. It’s spacious enough to fit three, and she finds the rug relatively comfortable. 

“Clarke?” Lexa looks utterly baffled.

“You’ve been sleeping on the couch since Costia left.”

It’s a statement, not a question. After the past few hours, there is little point to tiptoeing around Lexa, far too perceptive to pretend otherwise.

A pause. “The bed is nicer than the couch.”

Clarke whips her head at Lexa so quickly, so exasperatedly.  Maybe not so perceptive, after all. “That’s not the point!”

“Isn’t it?” 

_Okay, maybe dense as a brick._

“I’m not Costia,” Clarke states firmly, refusing to budge from the floor. Lexa warily eyes her from the doorframe, fingers gripping wood. She gets it, Clarke can see that she does, but she refuses to admit it. “There’s a reason why even you don’t sleep on this bed, and I get it. The unchanged sheets, the scent that lingers—you’re not ready, so don’t use me as an excuse to force yourself to move on. That’s not what friends do.”

She doesn’t mean to scold, and she hopes that it doesn’t come off that way. After the Finn revelation, it would be a disservice to let Lexa follow down the same delusional route. So, when Lexa finally leaves her post by the door, Clarke half expects her to walk the other direction. Any direction where Clarke isn’t in blatant, irritating view. But she instead walks toward Clarke and, when she finally realizes, Lexa is already laying alongside her on the rug.

“It takes as long as it takes, I suppose.”                                        

They are mere inches away, Clarke thinks—she doesn’t have the audacity to check—but she can feel Lexa’s radiating warmth and she just knows. There is an uneasy desire to let her hand wander—she’s grown used to Lexa’s warmth—but she withholds the urge.

Instead, she dramatically groans, “Guess we’re in it for the long haul.”

It draws out a laugh. _Mission accomplished_.

“You make it easier, Clarke.”

Lexa’s hand lays over Clarke’s again, much to her surprise, with a tender grip. Except, this time, Clarke knows it isn’t for her. It’s for Lexa. Too stunned to move and too afraid to ruin whatever moment this is, she does and says nothing. Her breath is caught in her throat and her heart palpitates so loudly she expects it to echo in the minimalistic room.

When she is reasonably certain that Lexa has fallen asleep—the grip has since loosened—she finally exhales.

“So do you, Lexa.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, guys! Surprise (and late) update, my bad. School has been a bust this past month, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The goal was to tug a few heartstrings, so let me know your thoughts and feelings! 
> 
> Or, since I love to procrastinate and I don't have enough friends who ship Clexa (life of an Economics major), hit me up via Tumblr @my-own-hero


	6. This Won't Last

Clarke doesn’t know how she let it get this far. How it slowly and quietly coiled itself around her heart. How it gradually rooted itself inside her mind, occupying it for hours at a time. How she didn’t realize its implications until it was too late.

But she did, she thinks.

Clarke thinks she’s always known. Moments of clarity, moments when she paused and wondered if this is how friends should feel about each other, moments when she wanted to know everything about Lexa, much more than she was entitled to.

Every step of the way, she’s always known—inside, below years of conditioning to put others first and herself last, behind a need to respect Lexa’s boundaries—that she was falling deeper and further for a woman who didn’t belong to her.

Clarke only regrets not realizing it sooner.               

* * *

This is when she first catches herself falling for Lexa.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Clarke is en route to Lexa’s apartment as part of her weekly routine. She spots the red light from afar and she sighs—it’s always this damn light—before braking to a gradual stop. It’s a long light. She’s driven this route enough times to have timed all the lights multiple times, knowing when she can briefly allow her mind to wander—about 1 minute and 22 seconds—and when her attention must never waver—10-second lights are simultaneously her best friends and worst enemies. This time, she pauses, and she can only think of how silly this is.

Clarke lives, at most, a five-minute walk from her nearest grocery store. A 10-minute walk from her favorite one. Local, giant food chains that carry every product she could possibly ask for. Yet, every Saturday, she hastily wakes at 10:17 AM—practice makes for perfect timing—readies herself, scarfs a poorly made oatmeal breakfast in under 15 minutes, before rushing into her car for the 20-minute drive to Lexa’s apartment for their 11 AM market trip.

It’s silly because of how wasteful it is. Of gas, of money, of time. But Clarke does it every Saturday anyway, because she can’t recall ever feeling so excited to spend a morning with someone doing mundane chores.

Somehow, Lexa has become part of her routine, and her a part of Lexa’s.

Lexa’s market is small, typical of mom and pop shops. It’s a fraction of the local Trader Joe’s and miniscule compared to Costco. They don’t carry Octavia’s favorite Speculoos Cookie Butter that she slathers over anything eatable, because that’s just “what you do with cookie butter.” Raven wouldn’t find her beloved poke bowls either, which would naturally enrage her because “it’s God’s gift to the less fortunate land lubbers.” It is, however, Lexa’s favorite. She’s been coming here since she moved into the neighborhood. She knows its owners, its employees, and every conceivable nook and cranny. It’s a place of safety and order for Lexa, so it becomes Clarke’s favorite as well.

“What’s your opinion on Tikka Masala curry?” Lexa asks, holding the curry packet out for Clarke to critique. “I’ve never had it.”

She thinks Raven would love that, though Octavia would need a little more convincing. She would like her friends to meet Lexa, when Lexa is ready.

Clarke holds the packet and scans its ingredients before shrugging. “No idea.” With a smile directed at Lexa, she chucks it into the shopping cart. Lexa is momentarily slack-jawed, but she doesn’t remove it.

Routines are a rare constancy in this ceaselessly dynamic world. Times, schedules, things to do, places to be—everything so predictable. To a person like Lexa, who values stability and reassurance above all else, Clarke thinks being part of Lexa’s routine is one of her greatest honors.

And, she thinks, how silly an honor like this must sound.

* * *

This is the second time she catches herself falling for Lexa.

It’s another Saturday afternoon in their market. She doesn’t remember her market became their market, but Lexa calls it that and Clarke likes how it sounds.

While Lexa browses the meat section with her to-buy list for the week’s meal plan, Clarke grabs two boxes of Cheerios for Lexa. Just in case. After chucking it into the cart, Clarke notices a vaguely familiar face. She’s noticed her a few times from previous trips, always silent but always around. Clarke initially figured it’s a small market, but too many coincidences are never quite just that.

“Hi.”

Clarke’s voice stuns her, as she almost knocks the entire shelf’s boxes down. She’s not more than a few years older than Clarke, brunette, notably taller than her, and with such piercing eyes that she swears could cut her if she desires to. However, if living with her absurd housemates and enduring their shenanigans has taught her anything, it’s how to be fearlessly confrontational.

“Sorry,” Clarke says with a wince. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“It’s fine,” she briskly reassures her. It doesn’t sound fine.

“I’m Clarke.” She extends a hand that is hesitantly met. “Is there anything I can help you with? Maybe I’m overthinking it, but I always see you around when I come.”

“I’m Anya,” she replies curtly. “I own this market.”

_Oh, shit._

“Also Lexa’s friend.”

_Wait, what?_

Lexa never speaks about her friends. Clarke only knows of Costia.

Before Clarke can reply—she has trouble absorbing the information, actually—Anya continues, “Who are you, Clarke? To Lexa?”

Immediately, she recognizes the quick escalation to a near interrogation, typical of journalists hunting for a scoop, and Clarke knows she doesn’t have to take this from a stranger. _How can I tell if she really is Lexa’s friend, anyway?_ But the way Anya looks at her and subtly threatens her with such fierce protectiveness over Lexa leaves little to doubt.

Clarke returns an equally fierce gaze, trying to convey that she’s just as protective over Lexa. “Just a friend.”

It’s a quiet, almost imaginary stand off, but neither one look away for what feels like minutes. Anya is the first to break— _thank God,_ Clarke withholds the urge to blink rapidly, a sign of defeat.

“A friend, huh?” She looks like she’s contemplating the possibility.

Clarke nods firmly. “Recent friends.” 

“So you know of Costia?”

Clarke nods again, weakly.

“You know, they found this place together and they only came together. I wasn’t surprised when she stopped coming here after what happened with Costia.” Her eyes again bore into Clarke’s for a few seconds, and Clarke feels her digging deeper, searching for something she isn’t sure she can provide. “But she’s becoming a regular again.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She doesn’t mean to be rude, but she isn’t sure if Lexa wants her to know this.

“Because she comes with you now.” It could be imaginary, but Clarke can feel her gratitude. She doesn’t know if she deserves it. “She shut everyone out after Costia left her. I think it’s because we all knew Costia too, and we reminded Lexa of her,” Anya pauses, jaw locked and eyes glistening, but Clarke pretends she doesn’t see. “I think our presence hurt her.”

Clarke feels her own heart ripple from her honesty and the lingering pain that accompanies it. Anya cares, cares so much even she a stranger sees so clearly, and she wishes she could convey that Lexa cares just as much for them.

“Don’t—Don’t overthink it.” She understands what Lexa feels—she can only imagine how her loved ones felt when she holed up for weeks after Finn—and she knows the last thing she wants is to worry her loved ones. “It’s just hard right now, and she’s healing her own way at her own pace. It isn’t about you or Costia. It’s about her figuring out how to live by and with herself now. I’m sure, when she’s ready, she’ll come back to you.”

A long pause.

“Thanks. For taking care of her.” She momentarily meets Clarke’s eyes again, but this time gentler and warmer, before turning on her heels—with a flicker of a smile, maybe—and casually waves goodbye. “She’s lucky to have you… friend.”

When Clarke returns to Lexa, who’s still fussing over which packaged meat looks to have better quality—it’s so typical of her that Clarke can’t help but smile—and she thinks Anya is wrong. She remembers how comforting and accepting Lexa always is. It was with her that she first talked about Finn aloud, and it was the first time she felt absolutely free in months. She felt _real_ and finally in control again, like she could move forward at last _._ And she has.

She thinks she’s the one who’s lucky to have Lexa.

* * *

This is the third time she catches herself falling for Lexa.

It is 2 AM on a Tuesday morning. Her hands cling to the sides of her head, handfuls of hair clutched between her fingers. She feels herself going insane. Her freelancing draft deadline is due in less than 6 hours, and she doesn’t have one complete sentence.

“Hello?” Lexa’s voice is groggy on the other line and Clarke immediately regrets calling this late at night. She normally would’ve called Octavia or Raven—her trusty veteran editors—but one’s out of town for work and another with her boyfriend. Lexa is a natural alternative and calling her comes second nature. “Clarke? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know what to write about.” Her brain feels overwhelmingly full of absolutely nothing. Not even drivel. Just emptiness. She doesn’t know which she prefers more. “I figured if I just waited it out, motivation would strike me for the holiday season and I’d just—I’d know what would impact my readers the most, you know?” She knows she’s rambling. Flustering and rambling go hand-in-hand for her, like sadness and whiskey, and she never could stop herself. “I’ve never had this bad of a writer’s block and I—everyone experiences the holidays differently, you know? How can I write something—anything universal that they all get? I feel like I’ve waited too long and now I’m—there’s no more time and—.”

“Clarke.”

Her voice is soft, with tints of drowsiness—Clarke is sorry for waking her up, but she doesn’t say it, only hopes she knows—but it is both commanding and calming at once. The rambling ceases.

“Why are you so fixated on what they want?”

_Is that a trick question?_

“Because they’re my audience?” She isn’t sure if her answer is more of a question or an answer. “I write for them.”

“Is that why you got into writing? To write for other people?”

Clarke’s fingers stop jittering, immediately catching onto Lexa’s drift. She’s right. _Of course she is._ When she was little, she didn’t dream of writing for other people. No; writing was—is—sacred because it’s personal. It’s something that belongs to only her.

“No.”

“Then write. Write for you. It will carry on, I promise you.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you and—” There’s a hesitant pause. “When you care, it shows. Your readers will get it.”

So, Clarke naturally takes Lexa’s advice. She writes, for the first time in a long time, with her heart and not solely her mind. No puff pieces. No trend pieces. No stats. No demographics. Just her heart, something she’s stopped writing with long ago. Against her swaying, Lexa stubbornly stays on the phone the rest of the night as Clarke types her draft. Lexa quickly falls back asleep, but her rhythmic breathing—and knowing that she cares enough to stay— motivates Clarke to do better.

She finishes not only in time, but she thinks this is her favorite piece in a while. Sunlight breaks through the skyline, lulling her to sleep. Clarke tries to stay awake to enjoy this moment of absolute happiness—she thinks she can call it that—with a finished piece, clad in her go-to writing sweats, hands cupping lukewarm coffee, and Lexa’s breathing as the backdrop. She falls asleep waiting for Lexa to wake, the phone line still alive though silent.

Later that morning, she wakes to Lexa’s voice.

“Clarke? Are you still there?”

“Yeah…”

She’s half there.

“Did you finish?”

“Mmm…”

She’s less there.

“I’m proud of you.”

_Thank you._

Following that night, Clarke begins regularly conferring her ideas with Lexa. Over unpacking groceries. Over Netflix marathons. Over early morning phone calls. It’s miraculous, she thinks, how comfortable she feels discussing her writing with Lexa at any moment of the day. She remembers it taking a little more than a year into her friendship with Raven to ask for an edit for just two paragraphs. It was out of desperation, actually, for her undergraduate thesis development deadline. Her writing, at its core, is personal and consequently flawed; as with personal things, sharing is vulnerability.

With Lexa, though, her synapses seem to spark quicker, brighter. Her tongue moves faster than her mind, spitting out convoluted ideas she’s attempted to disentangle in words. Together, they unpack her ideas. Together, they piece her words into whole pieces. It’s exhilarating and cathartic to build, rebuild, and build again, so freely.

The pieces she writes with Lexa’s help are her favorites.

* * *

This is the fourth time she catches herself falling for Lexa.

It is 11 PM on a Wednesday night, and Lexa has work the next morning but she lays in bed with Clarke on the phone anyway. Though she has an upcoming deadline, she has long given up on work as her mind toils other thoughts instead.

“Why can’t penguins fly?”

There is a long pause. “Is this the topic you’ve decided on after an hour of heavy deliberation?”

The corner of Clarke’s lips twitch in amusement. She can run with this. “Yes, so please educate me.”

“Wait. Sitting up so I can think better.” Static and rustling. Clarke is 80 percent sure that’s not how it works. “Do you want the scientific answer or my version of events?”

Clarke imagines the twinkle in Lexa’s eyes, charming even when she doesn’t mean to be. “Humor me.”

“National Geographic’s story is that birds can’t be masterful divers and flyers, so penguins chose diving over flight as they adapted to their environment.”

“I can’t believe you actually know that,” Clarke retorts cheekily. Lexa is never short of surprises. “Okay, why do you think penguins can’t fly?”

“They can’t afford the plane tickets.”

Silence.

“Clarke?”

Continued silence.

“I swear it was a joke. I got it from Google.”

Lexa’s honest, deadpan response sends Clarke into a fit of laughter, so loud, so rapturous that she feels her core working out for the first time in months. Clarke easily pictures Lexa hunched over her laptop with furrowed brows, pursed lips, and narrowed eyes as she ever so seriously scrolls through Google for jokes.

“Why’d you search Google?” _Who actually does that?_

There’s a short silence before Lexa clears her throat and quietly says in one quick breath, “Because you said I don’t make enough jokes.”

A warm feeling floods Clarke’s stomach. It was a joke, based on real life, yes, but nonetheless just banter she didn’t expect Lexa to take to heart.

“You remembered?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She’s thankful Lexa can’t see the absolutely dumbstruck look and, likely equally dumb grin, on her face.

“Clarke, I got it off laugh factory dot com. Its slogan is ‘guaranteed to get your insides sloshing!’” She abruptly stops, catching the dead giveaway. “Okay, I’m going to write them a firm, angry email about false advertisement. You’ll proofread it, yes?”

It takes all of her willpower to not laugh because she is sure Lexa is dead serious. “I promise.”

With Lexa, their conversation can take a thousand literal different turns. They talk about everything and nothing altogether—about what family means to them, about the dominance of dinosaurs, about the upcoming presidential elections, about birds that can’t fly—and she never feels more engaged elsewhere.

“This was never my talent.”

“Then I hope you have other sites.” 

“I have many memorized. I’ll get you next time.”

She wonders how soon next time will come.

* * *

This is the fifth time she catches herself falling for Lexa.

It’s a Friday night, and she learns how in love Lexa is with Costia.

The sun has long set and Clarke really should’ve eaten dinner a few hours ago, but over the past few weeks, she’s regained her fervor and focus for writing. Hours seamlessly pass with little heed, and ignoring the world comes so easily. Octavia and Raven get it; they’ve even instituted a sock-on-the-doorknob rule—in reference to Clarke’s college days—so, when Clarke writes, the world stops for her and she for nothing.

“Clarke?”

Except Lexa, of course.

“Mmm?” Her hands lift briefly from the backlit keys and she glances at the clock. 8:48 PM. What an odd hour to call. Their late night calls are always just that—late night—when they’re absolutely free.

“Am I interrupting your writing?”

Clarke briefly smiles from her concern, scanning her half-filled Word page. “Don’t worry about it. What’s wrong?”

“I need help moving my bed.”

It’s an odd request, especially on a Friday night, but also in general. But Lexa isn’t new to odd requests.

_“I need help eating cake.”_

There’s a warm feeling in her chest and what she’s sure is a dumb smile playing on her lips. It feels so long ago, but it isn’t, not really, and she thinks it’s a wonderful feeling. “You drive a hard bargain. How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”

She hopes Lexa understands the reference.

A soft scoff. “You do not.”

But, of course, she does.

“See you in 30.”

“Be safe.”

The drive is effortless, essentially reflexive and habitual. She knows the route like the back of her hand. Not more than five seconds of knocking on Lexa’s door is she let in.

“Considering this is practically my second home, I think you should make me spare keys,” Clarke chuckles, kicking off her shoes by the door. It’s a joke. Or half of one. Something sputtered out with a lazy grin and a breezy laugh to test the waters. Little commitment, little consequence.

Lexa is contemplative, barely pausing before locking the door. “Okay.”

“Wait, what?”

“Okay,” Lexa repeats, narrowing her eyes questionably at a befuddled Clarke whose creased brows cannot possibly crease any further. “We’ll make them tomorrow after lunch.”

“Um, okay.” She still isn’t sure how to react. “Uh, where’s the bed?”

Lexa gestures for Clarke to follow her. _That was the end of that, I guess_. When she cracks open the door to her room, Clarke notices the glaring difference. In place of Lexa’s— _and Costia’s_ —white and yellow floral sheets and their mattress is a new mattress clad only in plastic wrap.

“What do you need me to move?” That isn’t the question Clarke wants to ask. No; she is itching, vying, _trying_ to ask what really matters. But her brain fails her, and her old writer’s block manifests itself permanently in her speech.

Her eyes trace the direction Lexa’s finger points at. _Ah._ At least she now knows where their bed is, to the side of the door on a large dolly, in such plain sight that it was unnoticeable. “I had the movers load it on, but I thought it was best if we moved this one together.”

Clarke’s brow instinctively raises in response. It’s undeniably a special bed with memories. At the end of the day, though, Clarke has little to do with it.

“Why me?”

“Because you helped me reconcile certain things about my relationship with Costia,” Lexa starts, intentionally and blatantly avoiding Clarke’s obtrusive gaze, as she walks to the bed. “She left, and clinging to our bed and pretending it still smells like her and that the coldness is just winter air is a disservice to myself and you.” Her voice is steady, but her words are prayers, so quietly desperate and still hopeful. Her fingers clench so firmly onto its sheets that Clarke can see it ripple. “So, for us. For symbolism. Or something.” There’s a strained smile. “You tell me, you’re the writer.”

She wants to tell Lexa that she is so brave, so strong, but she will never tell her about the significance of this moment. No; Lexa is trying her best to normalize the situation, her feelings, and her love for Costia.

“For common sense, actually,” Clarke manages to say with a reassuring grin. “So you can stop killing your back on that beautiful but deathtrap couch.”

It’s the way they’ve always done it. _Silently. Faithfully. Unquestionably._ They first strip the new bed of its plastic wrapping and cover the old bed with it. _Taps. Gazes. Nods._ They wheel the bed into the spacious living room, eventually settling it by the bare wall adjoining the balcony and living room. Their method of consolation didn’t include fully enveloping hugs or motivational speeches. They knew instinctively and they understood deeply.

The two rest on the couch to take a breather, but Clarke’s eyes linger on the bed in its new home. Lexa notices but says nothing, choosing to look at anything but.

“You’re keeping it.”

“A small step forward until the next one.” 

The silence resettles, but Clarke is damned by her curiosity. “Why now?” She doesn’t mean to stare at Lexa for an answer to a question that really isn’t her business, but she’s no longer lying to herself that she can detach, stay away, and move on. It was a futile effort from the start. She was too stubborn to acknowledge it then.

“Because I still love her,” Lexa finally says, fully meeting Clarke’s eyes, and there’s no mistaking her relief. Surprisingly so, when Clarke expected a bittersweet smile, the one that so naturally clings to any mention of Costia. Instead, the brunette holds her gaze, eyes not watering even slightly, and Clarke thinks she’s never seen Lexa calmer. “But I’ve also wallowed long enough.”

It’s a simple explanation. Short, logical. Very characteristic of Lexa. But Clarke knows better than to take it as such. It’s a monumental accomplishment for the Lexa she first met in her dingy dark apartment with leftover wedding cake samples and old bridal magazines she never was able to throw out.

Clarke reaches for Lexa’s hand, squeezing it once and tapping it thrice. It draws a smile.

“Does part of you still hope she’ll come home?”

Her strength is nothing short of admirable, and what’s remarkable is that her strength doesn’t come from never falling. When they first met, Lexa was already on the ground, barely breathing but still fighting forward. It is through Lexa that Clarke—who has feared failing and falling since childhood—learns that falling isn’t a big deal, so long as you don’t plan on laying there. Her strength stems from recognition of her boundaries, willingness to still let others in—even if it’s just Clarke for now—and a resolute desire to look forward and push ahead. Lexa is a force and she is absolutely breathtaking.

“Less each day.” 

Clarke thinks of how easy it is for her to fall in love with Lexa more each day.

* * *

It is 1 PM on a Saturday afternoon, bright and casual like any other. She’s with Lexa, and she doesn’t remember how she spent Saturdays before her.

Lexa shuffles in the kitchen, preparing their ritual post-grocery lunch. Clarke sits idly by the kitchen island, attempting to focus on other things. Think about work. Think about plans with her friends. Think about— _shit_. Her eyes are magnetically drawn to Lexa, who’s too engrossed in slicing and seasoning to notice, so she admits defeat and does her best to pretend she’s not staring.

She thinks—knows—there are many more moments to come, moments of clarity, moments when she catches herself falling for Lexa again, deeper, further. She doesn’t think she’ll ever regret these moments, so subtle, so hidden, so _hers_. Even if Lexa isn’t. Because, this—whatever this is—won’t last, she realizes. It can’t last. Not when she’s falling more and more in love with someone who still belongs to someone else.

“Are you feeling a bit frisky today?”

Clarke’s laughter echoes in the apartment, loud and boisterous. “Could you sound any more inappropriate, Lexa?”

Lexa pauses and, after realizing her less than flawless diction, flusters, “I was talking about the spices.”

“Sure,” Clarke states coyly, adding in a teasing wink. “Of course. Nothing but.”

“Spices liven up the food. Isn’t that how everyone describes them?”

It’s so easy to be with her. To take in her company and just enjoy it. Both very clichéd descriptions, Clarke internally agonizes, as she slowly slips further into trite romance clichés she’s been taught to tread like quicksand. _You just don’t_.

“Not like that.”

But it’s getting harder to stay and be the selfless friend that Lexa needs as she recovers. When she looks at Lexa, she doesn’t see just a friend anymore. She sees her subtle, shy smiles, as rare and hidden as gems; she feels the residual warmth of Lexa’s hand over her own; she hears her quiet laughter that Lexa guards like a secret; she smells Lexa’s lingering scent, faint lavender and peppermint, on her clothes and in her hair; she tastes Lexa’s signature Spanish omelet, though she thinks of what her lips taste like instead. _Shit._ She also thinks about Costia far more than she’d like to; she thinks about who she was to Lexa, how she warmed Lexa’s heart, what her laughter sounded like to Lexa—she wonders if she can compete with Costia. There is no competition, she corrects herself. Being here for Lexa isn’t for her own selfish gains. It’s for Lexa, it always has been.

So, for now, she’ll wait. This attraction, infatuation, magnetic pull—it’ll last for her, until it won’t. It was never the point, anyway.

“You should teach me then,” Lexa challenges, darting an endearing smile at Clarke. She’s lost count of how many smiles Lexa’s directed at her now.

She wishes Lexa could teach her how to move on.

“That’s a long lesson plan.” 

Instead, she learns to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the terrible delay. My goal was to get it in before Christmas (aahh), but I just couldn't get it /right/. I hope you enjoy the final product, though! Shout out to my fantastic beta and girlfriend for shutting bad ideas down. 
> 
> The pace definitely picked up, so let me know what you think in the comments or at Tumblr (@my-own-hero) 
> 
> I hope you have an amazing New Year's! Under 21 in Vegas is not fun.


	7. You Belong

When Lexa pulls out her grocery list from her bag, Clarke stifles a chuckle. It’s always amusing how they can go from bantering in the car one second and game mode the next. Once Lexa’s aligned her priorities—or, in this case, her groceries—Clarke knows it’s best to leave her be in her nearly manic focus.

She allows Lexa to embark on her mission and takes the opportunity to begin searching for the items near the bottom of her list. The list is nearly never changing, so Clarke’s unintentionally memorized it over their many trips and has learned to divide and conquer.

First, Cheerios.

As she approaches the aisle, she sees Anya restocking in the center.

“Hey!” Clarke calls out, walking faster to meet her. Anya casually throws her arms over Clarke’s body in a light hug. “How was your trip?”

“City was great, food was great, but the girls…” Anya shrugs and feigns a yawn. “You know, I should just do what you did. What’s that site?”

Clarke flushes a brilliant red at the implication, the deeper hidden meaning behind Anya’s seemingly careless words. Her eyes flit in panic, but Lexa was nowhere to be seen.

“Not funny,” Clarke retorts, bristling at the unneeded reminder of her feelings for Lexa, as strong and present as they ever have been.

They’ve grown closer since their first tense, almost confrontational meeting in one of the aisles in this same market. It was a natural and inevitable outcome, given that Clarke comes here at least weekly. From awkward waving to increasing small talk, their friendship slowly blossomed, built on the same foundation and affection for Lexa, and now they have something resembling a strong friendship that belongs entirely to them.

Anya never asks about Lexa, but Clarke always finds a way to casually reaffirm Lexa’s wellbeing. Whenever she does, Anya’s shoulders visibly relax. Clarke understands that Anya’s giving Lexa her space, to let her redirect her life at her own pace, but she sees how it physically pains Anya to see her and purposely restrain herself. So she helps where she can, to ease the sorrow for Anya that she wishes someone could ease for her.

At the same time, Clarke’s realized Anya sees through her own growing feelings for Lexa and never ceases to remind her so. To tease or to encourage, she isn’t sure.

“But not untrue,” she states wistfully, raising a knowing brow. It’s reminiscent of Raven’s cocky, omniscient smirk and Clarke doesn’t need another ill reminder.

It takes her a second, but she conspicuously and clumsily changes the topic at hand. Much like how Clarke answers Anya’s unasked questions about Lexa, Anya returns the favor and pretends not to notice, continuing about her trip. It isn’t until Anya trails off mid-conversation that Clarke realizes their common foundation is staring at them curiously, only steps away from where they stand.

“You guys… know each other?”

Anya thankfully is the first to react as Clarke stares back speechless, jaw slack. “Clarke’s… she’s just always misplacing items after she browses –it’s damn annoying, so I gotta remind her.”

“H-Hey! I get distracted easily,” Clarke rebuts at last, picking up her part of the cover story. It probably wouldn’t be best to reveal their secret “Lexa’s sad friends club.”

Lexa eyes both of them carefully, as if examining the story for any holes. Then, she finally sighs. “Sorry Anya, Clarke’s just trying to help me out.”

It’s the first time Lexa’s spoken directly to Anya, directly acknowledged her, and Clarke swears she can feel a palpable sense of hope fill the aisle. Not for herself but for Anya, but the same fluttery feelings rise in her stomach nonetheless to bear witness to something so significant. Clarke feels like an outsider in this untimely reunion between two longtime friends, but she can’t help survey their reactions.

Anya’s mouth is half between agape and a genuine smile, with an inordinate amount of happiness that Clarke’s never seen Anya possess. Lexa’s eyes aren’t directly looking into Anya’s and she stands like a shy schoolgirl confessing for the first time, hands awkwardly pinned against her frame and legs rigidly straight. The significance of the moment isn’t lost on either of them.

It is a heartwarming moment and Clarke so badly wishes to stay, to be part of something so happy for both Lexa her crush and Anya her friend, but she doesn’t belong. She quietly turns on her heels, but a hand grasps her wrist.

It’s Anya’s and her eyes are watery. A silent thank you. Clarke doesn’t resist.

“Lexa…” Anya doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. She uses her free arm to pull Lexa in for an embrace to which Lexa responds fervently. She hears someone sobbing gently and feels the hold on her wrist momentarily tighten, but she doesn’t dare interrupt.

So, she stands there, inches from them. And though Clarke doesn’t partake in the hug, Anya’s hand holds onto her wrist gratefully, fixing her to this spot—to _them_ and this moment _—_ and Clarke feels like she could belong after all.

* * *

When they finally reach the car, after a long and enduring reunion that ends in Anya lightly punching Lexa’s shoulder and Lexa promising to text, Clarke lets herself give Lexa a hug as well.

It may have lasted longer than Clarke planned, but neither of them let go quickly.

“What’s that for?” Lexa asks curiously.

Clarke scoffs jokingly. “Are you complaining?” Lexa can’t find the right words, lips parting and pursing intermittently, so Clarke spares her. “I’m just… happy for you.”

“So… I get a hug every time you’re happy? Is that how this works?” Lexa flashes a brilliant grin, like she’s cracked the secret to some huge mystery that’s evaded the truth for centuries. Clarke doesn’t dare reveal how ordinary and agonizing the truth really is.

She’d give her everything if she could make her happy.

“At this rate, you’ll never get another hug,” she deadpans instead, ignoring the truth gnawing at her insides.

She’s made a choice to acknowledge those damning feelings and not act. So, the truth doesn’t matter. Not here anyway.

* * *

“Uh, is there a reason we’re not entering?” Clarke nods at the door of Lexa’s apartment. They’d been standing outside for a minute now, and Lexa’s hands have yet to retrieve the key from her bag. “Do you need help with the keys?” She sets down her grocery bag.

Lexa doesn’t answer. Instead, when her hands finally retrieve a key from her bag, it’s on an unfamiliar black lanyard.

“This is for you,” Lexa says, holding her hand out with the lanyard laced around a finger to Clarke who stares at it dumbstruck. “We agreed that I’d get you a key, remember?”

Clarke isn’t sure where to begin. “I—I mean, I asked as a joke, but—” She figured Lexa had forgotten or regretted the offer and didn’t want to push the matter. She wasn’t entitled to the key.

“I’ve had it for a while,” Lexa continues, ignoring Clarke’s half protest. “I meant to gift wrap it, but I wasn’t sure when I’d have the courage to give it to you.”

When Clarke still hadn’t taken the lanyard from her outstretched hand, Lexa instead gently grabs one of Clarke’s hands, opens it to reveal her palm where the key is carefully placed.

“It seemed a bit forward to give it to you then,” Lexa finally states. “But today, after Anya… it feels right.”

Clarke hates how she hears every word but cannot seem to process any of it. Her fingers close around the key in her palm and, surely, it is there. Tangible, real, _hers_.

“After seeing you two together… because of you, I was able to talk to her again,” Lexa says, with a small grateful smile playing at her lips. “Because of you, I had the courage to get my best friend back. So, I have the courage now to give you the key.”

“I—I still don’t…” Clarke sputters. Her heart’s thumping tethers her to reality, but is this really happening?

“Seeing my best friend and you interact, well,” Lexa pauses and she almost seems unnerved, “I realized that you’re a big part of my life, bigger than I initially thought.” She places one hand over Clarke’s enclosed hand, squeezing it. “I know I’m a cliché right now, but—”

“I love it,” Clarke interrupts. She doesn’t mean to, but hearing Lexa confirm her sizeable role in her life is altogether overwhelming and unsettling. She doesn’t want to continue this conversation, scared of where it’ll go, scared of losing what little control she still has over her thoughts.

Lexa heaves a great sigh of relief.

“I’ve got the door,” Clarke initiates, taking lead of the next steps. 

The words and the click of the lock come so naturally that Clarke momentarily pauses when she remembers that this is neither her door nor is that really her key. It’s Lexa’s apartment, but it feels so much like theirs now. The two enter in suit, kicking off shoes in the same corner they always do. Clarke to the left and Lexa to the right. They share a brief glance and even briefer smiles before separating. While Clarke naturally heads for Lexa’s room with her backpack slung over one shoulder and a near suffocating feeling in her chest, Lexa enters the kitchen.

Settling her backpack on Lexa’s floor by the windowpane, she pulls out her laptop with one hand and her black notebook with the other before hopping onto the bed. She needs to work, to think about something else. Burying herself in work is always a viable distraction. The bed is neither bare nor wrapped in the same floral sheets a month before. Instead, white, fluffy sheets don the bed and Clarke sees a different kind of home. A home without Costia, she thinks with abandon, and with a bit of her instead.

“Did you come here to work or sleep on our bed?”

Clarke’s eyes flicker toward the doorway, where Lexa leans with a hint of a teasing smirk. Lexa approaches her, one hand holding a cup of apple juice and the other a glass of water, with a book tucked beneath her arm. Clarke moves to make space for her.

“Our bed?” She inquisitively quips, fighting the urge to smile, as Lexa’s arm shortly brushes against hers before settling against hers entirely. They sit side by side against the headboard sharing drinks, and the warmth is all too welcoming.

“You cook here, you rest here, you write here,” Lexa rattles casually, but each word firmly and meaningfully presses against her ribs and Clarke wants to say her own three words, but she remembers her place—here and in Lexa’s heart—so she laughs instead.

“I sound like a pest." 

“You sound like you belong.”

Clarke momentarily loses her breath. She fails to combat this feeling, this light but enveloping feeling that she desperately wants to compartmentalize, because she’s accepted its existence. The feeling won’t settle and it won’t be ignored; it will only be internalized for years to come.

Clarke attempts to retort offhandedly, “Does this mean I don’t have to return the key?” Humor is her instinctive combat tactic, and it works usually.

“Never,” Lexa replies. “It was made for you.”

Operative word being “usually.”

Lexa always frustratingly and casually nulled her efforts. Avoiding Lexa’s stare—the lingering one that Clarke has grown so accustomed to and half wants to return—her thoughts roam into the other pressing matter that has nagged at her since Lexa gifted her the keys.

She thinks it’s silly, impulsive, and absolutely, unforgivably suggestive—but, still, the thought hasn’t wavered slightly. The idea is a type of boldness she hadn’t anticipated, and she wishes the same boldness struck her now as she dawdled in proposing it. Instead, it sits there firmly in her head, again, like it has weeks before. Waiting, much like herself, and the writer in Clarke appreciates the haunting parallelism but damns the sobering acknowledgement.

Lexa’s quick to catch onto the silence.

“Everything okay?”                                      

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

So, do.

“Well, since we’re both in such a sharing mood,” Clarke begins and doesn’t really see how this can end well, “I’d love to introduce you to my housemates sometime.” When she sees Lexa’s reaction, or lack thereof, she quickly adds, “If you want, of course! I think they’d like you and it’d…”

She trails off when she takes in Lexa’s face. There isn’t much to read on her blank face, and Clarke regrets ever suggesting the idea. Even confusion or rejection would be preferred to this empty stare.

“It was a dumb idea,” she continues, awkwardly clearing her throat to prepare a change in topic. “You must think I’m already a lot to handle, let alone my housemates who for all you know could be the worst influences and—”

Lexa interrupts quietly, “You like to ramble when you’re nervous.” Embarrassment flushes Clarke’s face and she’s sure she looks like a mess. “But I’d like to come.”

“Are… you sure?” Her response didn’t scream excitement.

Lexa nods. “Thanks for inviting me.”

When the conversation lapses into silence, Lexa opens her book and Clarke pretends to try and work. But she can’t forget the hesitation in Lexa’s whole being and wishes she could take it all back.

* * *

Sitting on the stool and pressed against the kitchen bar, Clarke silently watches Raven prepare their dinner for the night. While she’s wordlessly ruminating the turn of events with Lexa that Clarke’s revealed to them, Octavia’s fixated on her phone and probably texting Lincoln.

“So, you’re telling us your extra ass got a set of keys and you decide to introduce your best friends,” Raven shoots her a dubious look, “Who are basically your family to her?”

“When you put it like that…” Clarke gulps and looks at Octavia who is seated beside her on another stool. Her eyes widen in an exaggerated plea for assistance when they make eye contact.

Octavia rolls her eyes as receipt of her plea and interrupts Raven’s interrogation with, “Didn’t know you were so bold, Clarke.”

“It was about time,” Raven says sagely, raising a brow at a confused Clarke. “C’mon, did you think neither of us knew about your huge crush on the girl? Pretty sure it’s so big that NASA’s got pics of it from space.”

Clarke opens her mouth to defend herself, but finds herself most speechless when it matters.

“But no matter how bold you’ve gotten, she’s got you beat,” Octavia chimes in with an obnoxious grin. It’s even more irritating when she spouts indisputable facts while she’s still on her phone. “A key? I’m glad someone’s ballsier than Finn.”

“Is that why you invited her but never him?” Raven stops mincing garlic long enough to look at Clarke whose face is ridden with guilt. “You couldn’t even break the dating news to us when you were 3 months in.”

Octavia nearly slams her phone against the counter. “Wait, seriously! We had to follow you guys around for almost a week.” She catches the glare directed at her and course corrects, “For your safety, of course. But I swear you would’ve never told us if we hadn’t caught you guys snogging downstairs.”

“Oh my god, please don’t bring Finn into this,” Clarke groans, throwing her hands over her face. “It was just a dinner invite. It’s not that deep.”

Raven and Octavia share a quick glance. Neither of them is buying this, clearly.

“Well, we’re just glad you’ve moved from the pining phase to the freaking do something phase,” Octavia says with a teasing smile. “Bold looks good on you, Clarkey.”

“That’s not the point!” Clarke looks exasperated from defending herself. “It just felt right to introduce her to you guys, just as a friend… since I met her friend.”

“The difference is, she didn’t choose for you to meet her friend,” Octavia rebuts matter-of-factly, “and we’re not just your friends.”

There’s a _clang_ as Raven sets down her knife and joins them at the kitchen bar. She sits across from Clarke and minces no words. “Deny it all you want, but this dinner thing is you taking initiative, taking a chance with her.” There’s a contemplative pause. “What your head wants clearly isn’t what your heart wants.”

“You don’t see it yet,” Octavia agrees, “but you’re not just pining anymore.”

She doesn’t need to look at them to understand the atmosphere has shifted. It’s no longer playful teasing, but a heart-to-heart Clarke knows she isn’t prepared for.

“So, who is she to you?” Raven asks the winning question.

A moment of silence for everything Clarke wishes she could say. Her lover, her girlfriend, her something more than a friend.

Instead, “A friend,” she says too quietly and it sounds too much like regret.

Octavia nods slowly and understandingly. It’s clear she’s searching for the right words, the kind that won’t trigger further yearning in Clarke or attempt to sway her otherwise. It's apparent that Clarke's made her stand and Octavia's always had respect for her decisions, only advising to guide but never to assert.

“But is that what you want?”

Raven never had that same tact.

“It’s not about what I want. She’s still getting over her ex-fiancée,” Clarke smiles and it feels all too fake, much like the words she’s rehearsed with herself endlessly. “I like her. A lot. But it’s not going to happen. She needs me as a friend right now more than I need her as my girlfriend, so I’m not going to jeopardize our friendship and her healing for something like this.”

“Something like _this_ ,” Octavia says and her tone is more defiant than usual, “can be the rest of your life, Clarke."

She doesn’t need to continue, because she knows Clarke understands her meaning. It’s not everyday she uses her name so seriously.

“I’m not admitting defeat, just accepting reality,” Clarke states, looking both of them in the eyes. “She has this way of being so bold and honest… doing and saying things like they’re natural and obvious, without considering how others would see it.”

“So,” Raven starts somberly, “you mean to say…”

“All these things that mean something to me, could mean nothing to her.”

It’s the first time Clarke’s acknowledged these words outside of her head, where far too many thoughts jumble together. It’s easy to avoid and hide in her head for as long she wants. But, here, her words leave her bare to the devastating realization that all of this—her and Lexa—may all be inside her head. And, for something that may only be inside her head, there's an inexplicable wringing in her chest that she resolutely ignores.  

Neither Octavia nor Raven speaks, and Clarke doesn’t blame them. How do you comfort someone from a realization of this magnitude? She wouldn’t know how either. She feels sorry that they have to see her like this. 

After moments of tense silence, Clarke sees this as her cue to exit. "Well, I’m gonna go rest—”

“Tell us when the dinner is and we’ll be on our best behavior,” Raven cuts in, standing up from the stool. She’s returned to the sink with her back facing them. She doesn’t say anything further and Clarke knows she’s mad at her for being complacent, for settling, but she agrees to help her anyway. 

“Yeah,” Clarke finally says, with gratitude displacing the wringing in her chest.  “I’ll shoot you guys a text reminder.”

As she walks down the hallway to her room, she hears Octavia call out, “Just because it’s inside your head doesn’t mean it’s any less real.”

Clarke feels her eyes prickle as she shuts her room door.

Nothing’s felt more real. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life happened and here we are 2 years later... special shout out to mmeister911 and a_pterodactyl who reminded me how much I loved writing and feeling this story. 
> 
> It just took a while to work out those feelings, but I'm deadset on finishing this. Hope you'll be patient with me.


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